


Inverse/Reality

by MissMudpie



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 11:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1856844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMudpie/pseuds/MissMudpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Now you are free,” Catherine says, “to be with the man you truly love.”</p>
<p>The consequences of choice.  Mary with Francis, and Mary with Bash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inverse/Reality

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this several months ago and posted it on fanfiction.net. Posting it here now.

“Now you are free,” Catherine says, “to be with the man you truly love.”

She breaks Bash’s heart, and feels her own crack along with it.

“I love Francis more.” She tells herself that this is true, that this is all that matters. Never mind that the Pope has yet to legitimize Bash. Never mind that Catherine’s life hangs in the balance, that Charles’ and little Henry’s lives will be forever altered by her decision. Never mind that she must stake her claim on England now, this night, to save her country and her church. She tells herself politics don’t matter, that she is marrying for love. 

“It’s you,” she breathes to Francis. “It’s always been you.” And it’s true, it’s always been him. Since she was six years old, she’s been told that she will marry him. He has been the only destiny she has ever known. She wasn’t even allowed to imagine a different life, a different husband, until...

But she shoves it out of her mind.

Her gown is beautiful, white and lace and everything she has always dreamed. Her wedding is flawless, joyous and triumphant and everything she has always wanted.

Except.

Except in the moment before she signs her marriage contract. She looks back at her mother.

She looks back for him.

Except, in the midst of the dancing and feasting, when her mother tells her the truth. That the English queen still lives. That there was no hurry at all.

It shouldn’t matter. If anything, Mary should be grateful of her mother’s manipulations. She came to court to marry Francis. That has been the point of her whole life. She came ready to be a bride. It was Francis who hesitated, perpetually questioning their union, insisting he would only marry her if and when it was best for France. Of course France needed a push to uphold its end of the bargain. Thank God her mother was there to give it.

Yet she is angry all the same.

And except during her consummation, when they drag Bash into room to watch. It had been bad enough committing such an intimate act in front of the nobles and her ladies. Now she feels his eyes boring into her soul.

But what can she do, really? Francis is already inside her. Best get it done quickly, she thinks, and tries to focus once again on her husband.

When he finishes, the room clears. They are finally alone.

“I’m so happy, aren’t you?” Francis says.

“Yes,” Mary answers. And she tells herself it’s true.

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“Now you are free,” Catherine says, “to be with the man you truly love.”

Bash is shirtless, and for a moment that is all she can see. She’s embarrassed at having caught him at this level of undress. She expects him to grab his shirt and cover himself. Bash has always been so careful around her, respectful. But now he simply stares at her, shirtless. He looks…defiant, she finally decides. And she realizes he thinks he knows why she is here, and he is readying himself for a fight.

“Your face,” she murmurs, going to him and taking his cloth. “Let me.”

The surprise is evident on his features as he sits back in his chair, wincing only slightly as Mary cleans his cut. 

“Catherine came to see me,” she begins, and Bash grabs her hand.

“You were alone with her? Mary, after all she’s done…”

“Shhh,” she soothes him. “She cannot harm me anymore. She actually gave me some good counsel.”

“About?”

“About tonight. About who I should marry.”

“Did she sing Francis’ praises, then?” His words are bitter.

“No. She told me to marry the man I love.” Mary watches as wary hope springs into Bash’s eyes. She drops the cloth and takes his hands in hers. “Bash, there are so many reasons why I shouldn’t marry you. You know them, and those are just the immediate ones. And there is only one reason why I should marry you. And that is because I love you.”

His grin splits his face as he stands and pulls her in for a kiss. “I was certain I had lost you.”

“Never. I just had to trust myself.”

“And do you now?”

“Yes.” She kisses him again even as her lips pull back to a smile. “Can your priest still marry us tonight?”

“We’ll be riding in the dark.”

“Nothing we haven’t done before.”

“Then yes.” He kisses her hand. “Yes.” He makes for the door, but Mary pulls him back, laughing.

“Bash!”

“What?”

“Your shirt!”

They follow the passageways to the stables. Like phantoms, they ride across the fields to the small stone chapel. The priest is old and half asleep when they enter, but when he sees their faces he nods and agrees to marry them.

Bash is still a bastard, with no property, and so there is no need for a marriage contract. Mary realizes halfway through the ceremony that she’s forgotten Greer’s veil, and her hair is wind blown. There are no flowers, no people, no music. Just the two of them, standing before God and the priest, reciting vows of love and honor to each other.

It is perfect.

When the priest declares them man and wife, Bash kisses her forehead. Once outside the church and away from the old man’s eyes, he backs her up against the wall and kisses her deeply, kisses her the way she’s wanted him to kiss her for a long while now.

“You’re my wife,” he whispers reverently.

“Tell me, husband, is it time to not sleep?”

They ride, Mary’s hair wild in the wind. They steal back into the castle, scurrying down the halls and giggling like children who have snuck out of bed. And in the privacy of her chambers, they repeat their wedding vows without words. The only witness is the full moon hanging low in the sky.

“I feel like I can finally breath again,” Mary confesses in his arms.

Bash kisses the top of her head. “We’re not through it yet, I’m afraid. The tough part will come in the morning, when we tell all the kings and queens what I’m doing in your bed.”

“No,” says Mary. “The hard part was allowing myself to love you.” She lifts her head to look him in the eyes. “We are tied together now, you and I. No one, not Henry, not my mother, can break us apart. No threat is a match for us now.”

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Mary and Francis leave the castle at midday two days later, ready to begin their royal honeymoon. They travel north, to the coast. Mary stands on the shore near Calais and looks out over the Channel, and thinks about Mary Tudor and Elizabeth, London and England, and, beyond all this, Scotland. They travel to the Habsburg Netherlands, touring there for almost two weeks. Then it is back to Paris, to Notre Dame, where Mary again dons her wedding gown and once more pledges her love to Francis. The words come easier now, drunk as she is on his attention and ardor for her. 

She is pleased to see that her mother is not in attendance.

She knows better than to look for Bash.

They stay a few days in Paris, but the city is dirty and crowded and Mary cares not for it. They travel south this time, to the Mediterranean. They play in the surf and eat fresh fish and make love every night and, for the first time, Mary truly believes she has made the right choice.

But honeymoons do not last forever.

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Mary and Bash do not have time for a honeymoon. Instead, their first days and weeks of marriage are spent convincing their parents they are not foolhardy children who have made a horrible mistake.

“What have you done?!” Marie de Guise rants. “You have thrown away your nation’s future for a bastard!”

“His name is Sebastian,” Mary says, once again. “And he is your King.”

“If you think I will ever bow down to a bastard on the throne…”

“I expect you to follow the wishes of your Queen,” Mary says firmly.

“Perhaps this can be annulled,” Henry says.

Catherine laughs. “Don’t be naïve, Henry. You son spent the night in her bed. The union is sealed.” She waves her hand and drinks deeply from her glass.

“I thought you wanted me to marry one of your sons,” Mary challenges Henry. “You as much as ordered it last night.”

“That was when I thought we were pressed for time.” He shoots daggers at Marie. “Now you are forcing the Vatican’s hand, something to which they don’t take lightly.”

“Oh, just get it over with and behead him.” Marie rolls her eyes. “I’m sure you can find some trumped-up charges to level against him. You do seem good at it.”

“He can’t.”

Henry wheels on Mary, and Bash steps ever so slightly in front of her. “I can’t, can I? What makes you think I won’t sacrifice my son, my bastard son, to win England?”

“Because he is not just your son anymore.” Mary moves Bash aside. She stands straight and true, every inch of her a queen. “He is the King of Scotland.”

“King Consort,” Marie corrects.

“A king nonetheless,” Mary continues. “And it is no small thing to kill a king. If you harm one hair on my husband’s head, Scotland will declare war.”

Henry has the gall to laugh. “Don’t forget who needs whom in this alliance. France would crush you in battle.”

“Perhaps, if it were just Scotland. But do you think the other Catholic nations will stand idly by? At the very least Austria will come to our aid, if only to spite you. Spain would be pulled in, despite your daughter’s position there. And Medici money would go far in convincing the Italian states to take you on.”

This is Mary at her most regal, her most terrifying. She is a sight to behold, and Bash tells her so, the moment they are alone, as he undoes the laces of her corset and takes her in his bed. 

Of her ladies, Greer is the most supportive of her choice to marry Bash. “It’s so romantic, marrying the man you actually love. It’s…inspiring!” She smiles more, now, and Mary often hears her humming servant tunes. 

Kenna is sullen. “Diane will return now, and then what will happen to me?” Mary wants to tell her she warned her about becoming involved with Henry, but she bites her tongue.

And as for Lola… “Mary, are you sure? It’s not that I don’t support your decision, but you have to remember, it wasn’t that long ago that we sat right here and you told me of your plans to marry Francis. You seemed so sure then, and yet now you’ve run off with Bash!”

Mary grasps Lola’s hands. “I did love Francis, I truly did, but I loved him as a child. I feel like I have aged ten years here at French court. I am not the Mary who came here just a few months ago. Bash loves me as a woman.”

“I’m sure he does!” The girls giggle. “I’m happy for you, Mary, I truly am. But,” Lola sobers. “What have you told Francis?”

It’s not that she has forgotten about Francis, it’s just between arguing with her mother and Henry by day and loving Bash at night, Mary hasn’t had time to approach her ex-fiancé about marrying his half-brother.

“That’s a lie,” retorts Bash, and Mary pulls out of his arms to look down on him in their bed.

“It is not!”

“Mary. You haven’t spoken to him for the same reason I haven’t. It’s bound to be a painful conversation, and we’ve been avoiding it.”

Mary plays with the edging on the sheets. “I just don’t know what to say to him. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“Neither do I.” Bash kisses her and pulls her back to his chest. “But I’m afraid we already have.”

She finds Francis the next day around midmorning. ‘Find’ is the wrong word. She stumbles upon him quite by accident in the gardens and, having no other option, draws in a deep breath and approaches him. “Hello, Francis.”

“Mary.” She smiles, hoping they can get through this without a fight, until, “How do I look to you, now that you’ve made me a bastard? Am I more attractive to you?”

She slaps him. “What angers you more, Francis? That you don’t have me, or that Bash does? Because I think it’s the latter. I am no man’s property, Francis!”

He looks properly chastised. “I loved you, Mary.”

“I know. I loved you, too. But would it have been enough?”

“Yes, especially now. It was the right time for France and Scotland.”

“I meant would it have been enough to keep you faithful? Could you have been faithful to me, Francis? Or would our lives have been a constant string of Olivias? You were gone for almost two months; how many women did you bed in that time?”

“I was a free man the moment you announced your engagement to Bash.” But he doesn’t answer her question, which in turn is its own answer.

After a moment, Mary speaks. “I never wanted to hurt you, Francis. I never wanted to hurt anyone. I became engaged to Bash to save your life. But I married him because I love him. I hope one day you’ll accept that.”

Later that day she sees Bash striding down the hall, his eye beginning to turn black, his lip fat. “What happened?” she cries, rushing to his side.

“I talked with Francis.”

“With your words or your fists?”

“Both.” Bash shrugs. “We’re brothers.”

Francis leaves before dawn, but not before writing them a note congratulating them on their marriage. “I need time away, to figure things out. But I will be back, some day. Take good care of her, brother.”

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Their perfect little bubble bursts within hours of arriving back at court. Henry had held in his anger in Notre Dame, but now he has had two months to stew over Marie’s deception. And since she is no longer at court, he takes it out on Mary. “Do you know the trouble you have caused me? I was ready to send ships to England, and then I receive word that the English queen still lives!” As if it were her idea to lie about Mary Tudor’s death. As if it were she who demanded a wedding in one day.

Lola is ill, or so Mary thinks, until Kenna lets slip that Lola was with a man in Paris right before the wedding. She tracks Lola to a midwife who intends to end the pregnancy. Lola is distraught, but Mary convinces her to keep the child. “Do you know the father? Would you marry him?”

“No,” Lola says, sipping an herbed brew to calm her stomach and her nerves. “I could never marry him.”

“Is he of a poorer station? Or…Lola, is he married?” 

Lola nods and tears spill from her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mary, I’m so sorry…”

Mary gathers her friend in her arms. “It’s alright, Lola. We’ll figure it all out. You have nothing to be sorry about.”

Lola just sobs harder.

But all this pales in comparison to having Bash appear suddenly in her room, claiming Francis ordered his guards to kill him. 

Mary doesn’t believe him. 

And to prove it, she asks Francis outright.

“Without trust, we are nothing,” he says. But he doesn’t answer her question, which in turn is its own answer.

And just like that, the first bit of doubt has worked its way into their marriage. For the first time since their consummation, Mary and Francis simply sleep in their bed.

In the morning she tells herself to forget it, that she knows Francis, that he would never harm Bash, that he would never lie to her. She spends the next weeks busying herself with her ladies’ lives. They, too, deserve to be married to a loving husband. So she organizes introductions with the eligible men at court, helps Lola take out her dresses. She ignores the rumors she hears about trouble with the pagans in the woods. Only when Francis returns, bloodied but alive, does she even acknowledge the danger there.

But the terrors in the Blood Wood are nothing compared to the sight of Bash strolling down the halls.

“What is he doing here?” Mary gasps.

“He saved my life,” Francis says evenly. “The least I could do was welcome him back home.”

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The matter of their marriage is finally settled with the arrival of Diane de Poitiers.

“Have you gone mad?” she hisses at Bash by way of greeting. Mary is amused to finally have someone recognize that two people made the decision to marry that night. 

“You couldn’t have waited to hear from the Vatican?”

“They seemed to need a little push,” Bash says with a smile, hugging his mother. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, my brave son.” Diane then turns to Mary. “And you are the queen who has stolen his heart.”

Mary is nervous, but Diane gives her a warm smile and squeezes her hands. “We shall have to make time to talk, you and I, if you are to be my daughter.”

It is the first time anyone has called Mary ‘daughter’ without it sounding like regret, and she feels tears prick at her eyes. “I would like that, Madame de Poitiers.”

“Diane, Your Grace.”

“Mary.”

Diane cups her cheek. “You make him very happy, Mary.”

It is unclear what Diane says or does (“I don’t want to think about it,” Bash mutters), but when Henry emerges from his chambers several hours later, he is a changed man. “If the Vatican sanctions this marriage, then so be it. To Mary and Sebastian!”

Marie leaves that night. Their goodbyes are stilted, and Mary senses that this will be the last time she sees her mother. She watches the carriage as it disappears and tries to feel remorse, but all she feels is relief. When Marie has dipped out of sight, she makes her way to Bash’s old chambers. Into the wee hours of the night she, Bash and Diane talk beside the fire.

For the first time, the castle truly feels like home.

Now that Henry has publicly supported their marriage, things begin to move very quickly. Bash is given a crash course in politics, both foreign and domestic. Although still alive, all agree that the English queen will die soon, and so Mary is in meeting after endless meeting with advisors, all discussing how best to stake her claim to the throne. Their days are long; they are apart more than they are together, and at night often too tired to do much more than crawl into bed.

After almost two weeks of this, Bash declares a mutiny.

He grabs Mary as she’s leaving her third meeting with the Bavarian ambassador, pulling her back to their rooms. Greer is waiting for them and, as Bash waits impatiently outside, she helps Mary out of her regal attire and into a simple riding smock. She hands her a satchel and, with a kiss on the cheek, says, “Enjoy your honeymoon.”

Mary and Bash race to the stables, laughing all the way. “What do you think they’ll do when they notice we’re gone?”

Bash settles himself in his saddle. “Stay put, if they know what’s good for them.”

They ride through the woods, arriving at a small hunters’ cottage by the lake just before sunset. Bash’s relatives built it, he tells her, but rarely use it. Inside the cabin is sparse – just a small room with a single bed, enough for a hunter to escape the cold or the rain – but in Mary’s eyes it is a grand châteaux. Bash carries her inside and lays her on the bed.

They don’t leave it again until morning.

They spend the day walking in the woods and riding along the lake. Bash manages to catch a rabbit, and that, combined with the food Greer has packed for them, makes for a fine dinner. At night they sit under the stars, Mary in Bash’s lap, and simply talk. And when they both become chilled, Bash once more carries her to bed.

Morning comes all too soon, and with it the end of their short escape. Mary looks with longing at the cottage, and Bash kisses her hand and promises they’ll come back.

They walk back to the castle, arm in arm. A page suddenly appears before them, out of breath. Mary is sure he bears some scolding message. 

Instead, he exclaims, “Your Graces are requested in the throne room, immediately. There’s been news from the Vatican.”

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“Lola is pregnant,” Mary whispers, and she feels Francis’ arms tighten around her.

“Does she know the father?”

“Some man she met in Paris,” she answers. 

Francis tenses even more. Mary ignores it, attributes it to shock. After all, a queen’s lady giving birth out of wedlock is quite scandalous.

“I told her we would support her, no matter what. She’s one of my dearest friends, Francis.”

“Of course,” he replies. “Of course.” But his heart continues to race under her ear.

She sees them at the end of a corridor a few days later, deep in conversation. She can’t hear them, but their actions show their upset. She is about to make her presence known when Francis pulls Lola into a tight hug. Mary smiles and continues on her way.

How lucky she is to have such a sensitive and caring husband.

The snow melts. The trees begin to bud. The roses in the gardens bloom. A glorious spring turns into a magical summer.

Lola blossoms.

Mary remains childless.

She tries different remedies, different brews. She rubs Catherine’s ointment on her chest and ignores the burn. But every month, the night after the half moon, she awakes to find evidence that she is still not with child.

She tells herself that it doesn’t matter, that these things can take time, years even. But she can’t escape the looks the other nobles give her. Her one job is to make heirs, lots of them, and she is failing.

Mary wants to scream that she is doing her best. That there are two people in her marriage. That it is not all her fault.

After all, one must lie with one’s husband to become with child. And since early summer, when the nobles and their daughters all arrived at Court, Francis has been with her less and less.

Mary knew, deep down, that this would happen eventually. She just thought she would have him for at least a year before his eye began to wander.

He is still the boy she fell in love with, kind and gracious. He dotes on Lola, and Mary loves him for that. Sometimes she’ll retire to her chambers and find a flower on her pillow, or her favorite childhood sweet.

But he is not there. 

At night she dreams of confronting him. She plans out what she would say, down to her very inflection and movements. But when morning comes, and she awakes alone in her bed, her courage flees her. He’d warned her, after all, when she first arrived. She always knew this would be a part of her marriage.

“I will always put you first.”

She pushes the words out of her mind.

The Feast of the Assumption is a grand affair, with music and dancing and more food than could possibly be consumed. Most important, the wine flows free, and Mary indulges. Francis dances with various ladies of court, young noblewomen with tight dresses and flowing hair. Mary ignores them and drinks her wine.

But then, in the corner, Charles begins dancing with the young daughter of the Swedish ambassador, a skinny little thing with blonde hair, and something inside Mary snaps. She grabs him by the arm and hauls him into the hallway.

“How dare you, Charles! You are engaged to Madeleine!” she scolds him as Charles tries to break away.

“Mary, you’re hurting me!”

“That girl is not your wife! You have to respect your wife, do you understand? You can’t just throw her away whenever another pretty little girl comes by!”

Her words are cut off as someone grabs her arm and hauls her away.

“Bash!”

“Go back inside, Charles,” Bash says through gritted teeth, forcefully leading Mary further down the hall. 

“Let go of me!” Mary slaps his arm, his chest, and tries to pull away, but Bash holds her fast. He only releases her when they reach the privacy of a small alcove. 

“What were you thinking, going after Charles like that?”

“He was dancing with another girl!”

“He’s eight years old!” Mary stares at him, and Bash smirks. “But you’re not talking about Charles.”

She pushes him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Watching Francis make his way through the ladies of court. Watching me suffer!”

“Is that what you really think of me? That I would revel in your pain?” His voice is dark.

“Why are you even here?”

“Because you’re drunk. You need to calm down before you make a spectacle of yourself.”

“No,” Mary repeats. “Why are you here? Why don’t you just leave?”

“Don’t you think I would if I could?!”

“Who’s stopping you?”

“You!” he shouts.

Mary flies at him, grabbing his face and kissing him. Bash doesn’t respond at first, but when Mary starts to step away he pulls her back against him. He backs her up against the wall and kisses her deeply, kisses her the way she’s wanted him to kiss her for a long while now. For one moment, one delicious moment, he’s pressed against her exactly where she needs him, and a soft moan escapes her lips.

Bash releases her immediately. He moves several feet away from her while Mary remains plastered against the wall. The only sound is their heavy breathing.

“I made a mistake,” Mary finally whispers. “Marrying Francis was a mistake.”

“Yes.” Bash’s voice is coarse and brittle. “And now we must both pay for it.”

And then, he’s gone.

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“The Vatican has legitimized Sebastian de Poitiers.”

The words keep ringing in Mary’s ears. The envoy continues on, explaining that while Bash has been made the new heir to the French throne, Henry’s marriage to Catherine will not be annulled. Their children will maintain their place at court and in the line of succession. Francis, now the younger brother of the next king of France, has been named the Duke of Orleans.

Mary hears all this with half a mind. She doesn’t understand the ecclesiastical justifications for this strange ruling. All she can properly comprehend is that Bash has been legitimized.

She lets her husband – her Vatican-approved husband – lead her out of the throne room. They are halfway to their chambers when she feels her grip on her emotions finally slip. She just barely manages to get them into a secluded alcove before she breaks down.

Mary sobs.

Bash holds her close, rocks her, whispers her name in her hair. “Mary, Mary. It’s alright.”

“It’s over,” she finally gasps, lifting her head to look him in the eyes. She laughs, even as the tears continue to fall. “You’re my husband.”

“We’ve been married for over a month,” comes his cheeky reply. He cups her face, thumbs gently rubbing away tears. “Are you just now realizing that?”

“I was afraid the Vatican would not recognize our marriage. That they would take you away from me.” 

“Mary,” Bash whispers, kissing her softly. “I am forever yours. Nothing will ever take me from you.”

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“The English queen is dying.”

“The English queen is always dying,” Mary mutters.

If Henry heard her, he doesn’t show it. “They say she will be dead within a few weeks. Elizabeth is already making plans to take the throne. We must be prepared as well.”

Summer had given way to a hard autumn; although barely November, the ground is already hard with frost. “Hard with frost” would have been an apt way to describe Mary’s heart, as well. Francis had acquired a favorite, the second daughter of the Count of Anjou, and she had stayed on at court even as the others had left. He rarely came to Mary’s chambers now. Mary had learned not to mind.

She sees Bash even less, quite a feat, really. The castle was not so large. When they do see each other, it was always at a distance. Perhaps it was better that way.

Henry continues on, about ships and diplomats and advisors and coronations. It all makes Mary sick. Who was he to control her future? If this all went wrong, France would still stand. But Mary? Mary would lose everything, starting with her country and ending with her head.

“What if I don’t claim the English throne?”

Her voice is soft but it rings clear in the room. Henry stops. “Excuse me?”

“What if I don’t take the English throne? Elizabeth is beloved in England. The people will rise up in her defense. It could mean the end of Scotland. We – ”

“Leave us,” Henry orders. “Now!” The various advisors scramble out. “Listen to me closely,” Henry says, his voice deceivingly calm. “I don’t give a damn about Scotland. The English tore apart my country for generations, and I will have my revenge. You will give it to me. I don’t care if it costs you your head, I don’t care if Scotland burns to the ground. England will be mine, you understand?” He turns to his son. “Talk some sense into your wife,” he says as he storms out of the room.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” Francis says after a moment. “You know better than to anger him. Besides, you claiming the English throne was the main reason for our marriage.”

“I thought our love was the reason we married,” Mary shoots back.

“Yes, of course.” Francis takes her hands, placating her. “Of course I love you. But love wasn’t reason enough for us to marry. You know that.”

“You promised not to pressure me. Don’t you remember? When we were first engaged, you promised to hear my side of things.”

“Yes, well, that was our first engagement.”

They’ve never really spoken of her time with Bash, nor her feelings for him. But every so often, Francis likes to use it as a weapon against her. That he does this while sharing a bed with another is, for Mary, the height of hypocrisy.

Not that she will ever tell him.

“Will you not even listen to my reasons?”

“No, Mary, I will not.” Francis’ temper begins to show. “We’ve all seen what happens when you try to play politics. England is too big a prize. If it makes you feel better, I’ll handle everything with Father. I am Scotland’s king, after all.”

“King Consort,” Mary corrects.

“A king nonetheless.” His hand is on the door. “Shall I tell Father you’ve come to your senses, then? Good.” He does not wait for her answer. He simply leaves.

Mary loses herself in her head. She makes for her chambers, but halfway there her feet change direction. She wanders onto a hidden balcony, overlooking the forest and the fields. Her eyes are unfocused, though, as she contemplates the path her life took to get to this miserable point. Time passes. She does not realize she’s cold until a warm cloak is draped over her shoulders. 

“Hello, Bash.”

“Mary.”

“I didn’t hear you step out.”

“No, I don’t imagine you did. Where were you just now?”

Mary sighs. “Somewhere far from here.”

Bash nods and leans his arms against the railings. “I go there often myself.”

Mary mimics his pose. “I want to apologize. About that night.”

“Don’t. We were both…not ourselves.”

She smiles wryly. “That’s a polite way of saying I was sauced.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” She looks out in the distance. “I wish you would leave. But I’m glad that you haven’t.”

“I told you, I will always put you first. Even above myself. You are not alone here, Mary.”

What different people they were, the last time he said those words to her. She mourns for the Mary and Bash they once were.

“They want me to try for England.”

“And what do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It matters to me.”

His eyes are so open, so sincere, that Mary finds she cannot look away, try though she might. “I want to go home. I want to leave France and never look back. I want to tell Elizabeth that we are cousins, and cousins do not make war on each other. I want to go back to Scotland and be its queen, its true queen.” 

Bash’s hands find her waist. “Give me the word, Mary, and I will take you home. I will have you in Calais in less than a week, and I promise you they won’t catch us this time.”

“Oh, Bash.” She touches her forehead to his. “Your heart is too big.” She stands on tiptoe to place a lingering kiss on his brow before returning his cloak.

“Mary,” he calls just as she is about to step inside. “Don’t let them hurt you, Mary. You rule Scotland, not my father, not Francis. England is your claim to make, no one else’s.”

She nods and gives him a small smile. “I won’t. Thank you, Bash.”

“Always, my Queen.”

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“Do you know the signs, indicating you are with child?”

Mary chokes on her wine and blushes. “Ummm?”

Diane smiles kindly. It is just the two of them, enjoying a late supper. Bash is stuck in a meeting with the Privy Council.

“The most obvious, of course, will be an end to your monthly bleeding. Does it come regularly for you?” Mary nods, cheeks crimson. “Please don’t be embarrassed. These are things every woman should know. You will also begin to feel tired, very tired. You’ll need to relieve yourself more often. Your breasts will become swollen and tender. Some women feel ill. These are all indicators that you are with child.”

“I don’t…I don’t have any of them.”

“Well, you haven’t been married very long. These things take time, sometimes. And sometimes it can be good to…delay having a child. Do you know how to avoid becoming with child?”

Mary takes a large gulp of wine. “No. But, I, uh, I think I’ll just leave it to fate.”

Diane nods. “If you change your mind, or have any questions, you can always come to me.”

Mary’s monthly bleeding continues. She is tired, but not overly so. Her breasts do not change.

The same cannot be said for Lola.

The first time Lola yawns, it is still morning, and Mary assumes she simply retired too late. The second time, it is mid-afternoon, and Lola is practically asleep at her sewing. The next day, she notices Lola wince when Greer accidentally brushes by her.

When she asks Lola, her lady bursts into tears.

Mary holds her until the crying stops, whispering reassurances. “It will be alright, Lola. We’ll take care of you, we’ll all take care of you.”

“I’m a ruined women!” she sobs.

“Stop that. You aren’t ruined. Do you know who the father is? Could you marry him?”

“Oh, Mary.” 

She doesn’t need to say the words. Mary looks at her face, and somehow, she just knows. “Francis. The baby is Francis’.” She backs away, needing a moment.

“Mary, I’m so sorry. It didn’t mean anything. We – ”

Mary holds up her hand, wordlessly asking for silence. “I…I need a moment.” Anger, betrayal, jealousy. They all swirl within her. “We’ll sort this out, I just need a moment.”

She flies to Bash’s old chambers, which he’s kept as an office. He smiles widely when she bursts into the room.

“Have you come to rescue me? I swear, these nobles find the pettiest matters over which to argue. This one – Mary, what’s wrong?”

She can’t find the words, so she simply climbs onto his lap and buries her head against his neck. Bash rubs her back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Lola. She’s with child.”

Bash lets out a long sigh. “The poor girl. The poor child.”

“Francis is the father.”

“What?”

Mary nods and straightens herself. “They rode back from Paris together, remember? They must have been together there.”

“And you are…angry?”

“Absolutely I’m angry!” Mary stands and begins to pace. “I’m furious. And hurt. And – ” She stops, realizing both what she is saying and to whom she is saying it.

“No, please, go on. This is most enlightening.”

She scowls at him. “Don’t you start.”

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Start what? I just love hearing how you’re jealous of my little brother.”

“I’m not jealous!”

“You are!”

She stares at him, then stomps her foot like a small child. “Fine, I’m jealous! Does that make you feel better?”

“Not really…”

But his words are lost as Mary continues. “We’ve been making love practically constantly for the past two months and nothing, but Lola becomes with child after one night! With Francis! Who, understand, I do not want back, but still…She’s one of my closest friends! There should be some rule against such pairings. And she should have told me! I mean, can you imagine if I had actually married Francis that night? Would she have said anything? Would she have told me after it was too late? It’s just…it’s just wrong.”

Bash waits a moment to make sure she is done, then slowly stands and approaches her. “So, just to be clear, you’re upset that Lola slept with Francis. Are you also upset with Francis?” Mary’s face twists in confusion. “It takes two people to make a baby. Francis is just as responsible as Lola.”

“You’re the first man who’s ever said that, you realize that?”

Bash laughs. “Yes, my take on sexual politics is quite progressive.” He takes her hands in his. “Put yourself in Lola’s place. She’s scared and alone. Who knows when Francis will return, or if he’ll even be willing to claim the child as his. Does she even love Francis, or was this simply a moment of weakness? She’ll need her friends now more than ever. She’ll need you.”

Mary nods, chastened. “I’m afraid I did not react well to this.”

Bash snorts. “It’s your Scottish temper.” He plays with the ends of her hair. “You’re sure you aren’t having regrets?”

“No!” She kisses him. “I’m so sorry if I’ve made you think that. Don’t ever doubt how much I love you, Bash. How deeply in love with you I am.”

“Good.” He gathers her in his arms. “And about the other thing.”

Mary groans. “Forget I said anything. I’ve already had this conversation with your mother.”

Bash jerks back. “What? What did she say? No, never mind, I don’t want to know.” He kisses the crown of her head. “I’d say we have enough on out plates without worrying about becoming with child, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Mary agrees. “It will happen when it is supposed to happen.”

“Exactly. But until then – ” Bash lifts her and turns, setting her on the desk and kissing her deeply. “There’s no harm in continuing to try, don’t you agree?”

“Here? On your desk? In the middle of the afternoon?”

“Here. On my desk. In the middle of the afternoon.”

“Sebastian de Poitiers, you’re trying to corrupt me.”

“You mean I haven’t already?”

They kiss again, and when it ends Mary strokes his cheek. “I need to apologize to Lola.”

Bash nods and releases her. “Will you tell her I know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want her to feel embarrassed.”

“Mary. I’m a bastard, remember? Tell Lola she’ll never have any judgment from me.”

She kisses him once more on the cheek. “You are a good man.”

As she returns to her friend, she thinks how lucky she is to have such a sensitive and caring husband.

The snow melts. The trees begin to bud. The roses in the gardens bloom. A glorious spring turns into a magical summer.

Lola blossoms.

Mary remains childless.

Mary gratefully, blessedly, remains childless. 

She wants children, of course, a whole gaggle of them, dark-haired wild things to rain havoc down on French court. But watching Lola suffer through the first stage of her pregnancy, Mary is thankful that she is not also in that position.

At Mary’s urging, Lola writes to Francis. Five long weeks pass before his reply, and when it comes Lola locks herself in her room and cries.

Francis won’t claim the child.

He’s sorry, of course, but he just can’t. He may not be the Dauphin any more, but he is still a prince of France. His marriage must matter. He must marry for France, and the daughter of a Scottish noble is not in France’s best interest.

“And they call me a bastard,” Bash hisses when he hears. 

Mary stays the night with Lola. They curl like kittens in her bed and talk long into the night.

“In truth, a part of me is relieved,” Lola admits, one hand absentmindedly rubbing her belly. “I don’t love Francis. I was with him in a moment of weakness. I don’t know that we would have had a happy marriage, especially one that was forced upon us. Oh!” She grabs Mary’s hand and puts in on her stomach. “Do you feel that?”

Mary shakes her head. “Is he moving?”

Lola nods. “He’s been more active the past few days.”

“That’s good. It means you’ll have a healthy baby,” Mary says. “What is it like?”

Lola takes a deep breath. “Terrifying.” She gives a little laugh. “Exhilarating. It’s like my body isn’t my own any more, yet I can’t find it in me to care. I wish it were under different circumstances but…” She smiles lovingly at her bump. “I would not trade him for anything.”

The Feast of the Assumption is a grand affair, with music and dancing and more food than could possibly be consumed. Bash dances with Mary until she can barely stand. Laughing, she waves him off. “My feet are too sore, Bash! Find another victim!”

“Very well.” Bash bows low. “Lady Lola, may I have this dance?”

“Are you serious? I can’t even see my feet!”

“Oh, go, Lola!” Mary gently pushes her lady to her husband, who carefully escorts her to the floor. Lola’s balance is off, but Bash is attentive, and after a few steps Lola appears to be genuinely enjoying herself.

“You seem to have lost your husband,” an accented voice says behind her.

Mary turns. “Duke Leonardo. How are you enjoying yourself?”

“The woman your new Dauphin is with. She is his mistress? She carries his child?”

“No, no,” Mary quickly corrects him. “Lola is one of my ladies. Her betrothed was killed in a horse riding accident.”

“Ah,” the Duke says. “She reminds me of my dear wife. She died last year, giving birth to our son. He also did not make it.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” says Mary. “Did you have other children?”

“Yes, two girls.” He points to the corner, where his daughters play with Charles and little Henry. “Sophia and Amalia.”

“They’re lovely.”

“They need a mother. I need a wife. Do you think, perhaps, your lady Lola is ready to need a husband?”

Leonardo is waiting for Lola when she exits the dance floor, armed with the puffed pastry Lola craves. Their courtship is short but sweet, born of past pain but hope for the future. His girls take to Lola immediately. And on the first day of October, the couple stands before the palace priest and recites their vows. There will be another, grander wedding in Milan when they return, but Leonardo is insistent on marrying Lola now, before their journey. Her child would be his child, born within the bounds of his or her parents’ marriage.

“I’ll miss you,” Mary says as she hugs her friend goodbye. “But I’m so happy for you.”

Lola’s letter arrives in late November. Her child was born on the sixth of the month, a healthy baby boy with dark hair like his mother’s. His name is Roberto, his sisters dote on him, and his father sings to him every night before bed.

That same day, word from England arrives.

Mary Tudor is dead.

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Mary Tudor is dead.

“She has named Elizabeth as her successor.” Mary reads the news in Henry’s chambers. “The matter is settled, then.”

“The matter is not settled,” Henry insists. “Elizabeth is a Protestant heretic. Mary has been sick for months. Likely she was not in full possession of her faculties when she signed that, if she even signed it at all.”

“You think it was forged?”

“It would not be the first time such a document was,” Catherine notes.

“It doesn’t matter. The people believe Elizabeth is their rightful queen. They won’t support me.”

“They will support you. The Catholics will rejoice and flock to your banner.”

Francis pulls her aside. “Mary, this is our chance. We would be rulers of half of Europe.”

“We have Scotland and France. Isn’t that enough?”

“You’re just scared.”

“Of course I’m scared!” she hisses. “It’s my neck that is on the chopping block.”

“Enough!” Henry roars. “I grow tired of this. You are claiming England. I say so, your mother says so, the Pope will say so.” He grips her arm and drags her to his desk. “Sign it. Now.”

She has no choice. Mary signs the document announcing her claim on the English throne. 

She fears she has signed her death warrant. 

Mary wishes only to be alone, but when she returns to her chambers she finds Lola, panic-stricken, standing in the middle of the room.

“I think the baby is coming.”

The midwife is called and Lola is made comfortable in her own chambers. Mary refuses to leave her side, even after the midwife remarks that labor is no place for a queen.

“I helped the nuns deliver many babies while I was at the convent,” Mary states. She does not mention the child she delivered by herself in the Blood Wood. Remembering those times is too painful. “I’m staying with my lady,” she insists.

Lola’s labor progresses slowly. Mary helps her walk the room, rubs her back when the pain hits. She labors throughout the night and into the next morning. The sun reaches its peak. Finally, as the evening star appears, Lola delivers a healthy baby boy with golden hair.

Lola cries when her son is placed in her arms. “He’s so beautiful.”

“He is,” Mary agrees, running a finger along his chubby cheek. “Does he have a name?”

“Robert,” Lola whispers. “Robert Colin.”

“A good Scottish name.”

After a while Mary leaves to change her clothes, promising to return soon. Outside she finds Francis haunting the halls.

“Is she alright? Is the baby alright?” He seems tense and ill at ease.

“She’s fine, they both are,” she reassures him. “He’s a beautiful baby boy, big and strong. Lola did wonderfully.”

Francis lets out a long breath. “Thank God.”

“You are good to worry about her. I’m going to change. Have you eaten? Will you join me?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes, yes. I’ll meet you in a minute.” He seems distracted, but Mary puts it out of her mind.

Her maids help her into a simple gown, and she returns to Lola’s room. Carefully, so as not to disturb them, she opens the door slightly.

The tableau before her does not surprise her, and somewhere deep down Mary knows she was almost expecting it. Francis sits beside Lola on the bed, looking at little Robert with awe and love. The two share the same blonde locks, which Francis gently caresses. He leans down to place a small kiss on the baby’s head, and as he does so Mary silently closes the door.

Bash doesn’t seem at all surprised when she enters his room. In fact, he appears to have expected her, as evidenced by the wine standing ready on his desk. “So,” he says. “Now you know.”

“I’m not a fool,” she snaps, drinking deeply from her glass. “I’ve known for a while now. I just…”

“Didn’t want to believe it.” Mary nods. “And now you do?”

“And now I do.” She sits in the chair next to his and stares at the fire. In another large gulp she finishes her wine and holds out her glass for another. “I claimed the English throne yesterday.”

“I know. Father was crowing about it all morning.”

“I am now Mary, Queen of Scotland and England. And one day, Queen of France.” She toasts the flames. “Long may I reign. Until Elizabeth’s assassins come for me.” She drinks again and feels Bash’s eyes on her. “What?”

“Why did you sign it?”

“I didn’t have a choice!”

“You always have a choice! You just…”

“I just what? Don’t make the right ones?”

Bash doesn’t respond. He just stares at the flames. 

The wine makes her feel warm, her tongue loose. “I had such hopes for my marriage to Francis,” she says into her glass. “But look, we’ve become exactly like his parents. He is Henry, Lola is Diane, Robert is you, and I,” she chuckles ruefully. “I am Catherine de Medici.”

“You could never be Catherine.”

“Oh, I think it would take very little for me to become Catherine.” Mary finishes her glass and pours herself another.

“You should slow down,” Bash warns. “When did you last eat?”

She waves him off. “I’m fine. I’m not hungry.” But Bash is already pushing a chunk of bread into her hands.

“Eat.”

She plays with the bread, hollowing out the soft center. “What do I do now?” she wonders softly.

“What do you want to do?”

She wants to go home. She wants to close her eyes and find herself in this same space but at a different time. She wants redo her marriage, this time with another man. She wants…

She wants to feel Bash’s weight on her, feel his arms around her, feel his lips on her skin. She wants to know what it is like to truly make love.

The wine gives her liquid courage. She sets aside her bread and moves from her chair to stand before him. Bash stares at her but says nothing. Carefully, Mary straddles his lap, Bash’s hands gripping her hips to keep her steady. She combs her fingers through his hair while Bash’s thumbs make small circles on her hips. For a while this is all they do. Then Mary leans down to kiss him…

And Bash pulls away. “No. Not tonight. Not like this. Not when you’re drunk. Not when you’re angry at Francis.” His voice drops. He is almost inaudible when he says, “Not when I’m your second choice.”

She’s startled by his rejection and beyond embarrassed, but as she makes to flee his hands tighten around her waist. “I didn’t say you had to leave. Just that nothing could happen tonight.”

She wonders why he included that last word but does not mention it. Instead, she strokes his cheek as tears burn in her eyes. “I’ve hurt you. Terribly.”

“Yes.” And the answer is pure Bash – open and honest.

“I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry.”

“I know.”

“Will you be able to forgive me, one day?”

“Oh, Mary, Mary.” He brings their foreheads together and breathes, “I already have.”

“You shouldn’t. You should hate me. It would easier for both of us if you did.”

“Just because something is easy doesn’t make it right. I always knew loving you would never be easy.”

Her tears begin to fall in earnest now, and she sees them reflected in his eyes. “These past months without you have been the hardest of my life. I didn’t know how much I needed you until you were gone. I can’t lose you again, Bash.”

“You never did, Mary.”

They shift so she is more comfortably sitting in his lap, head resting against his shoulder while his arms hold her tight. They sit in silence, watching the fire. Mary feels her eyelids grow heavy.

“I’m so tired,” she mumbles.

“Sleep, then.”

“I can’t be found here.” But she is already half gone.

“You won’t be. I’ll take care of you, Mary. I’ll always take care of you.”

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Mary reads the news in Henry’s chambers. “They say she has named Elizabeth as her successor. The matter is settled, then.”

“The matter is not settled,” Henry insists. “Elizabeth is a Protestant heretic. You are the rightful heir to Catholic England.” He hands her the quill. “All you have to do is sign your claim, and England will be yours. France will support you.”

Mary hesitates. “I’m not sure…”

“Sign it!” Henry shouts, pushing Mary towards the table.

Bash is instantly by her side. “That’s enough. Touch her again and – ”

“And what, little pup?”

“Bash, don’t,” Mary murmurs. “I’ll sign it.”

But he’s already taking the quill from her fingers and ushering her towards the door.

“What are you doing?” Henry demands.

“It’s late. We’ll settle this matter in the morning.”

“We’ll settle it now!” 

But they are already out the door.

Mary waits until they are alone in their chambers before she speaks. “Bash, what are you thinking? Your father will be furious.”

“Let him be. It doesn’t matter. You hesitated, Mary. You aren’t sure, and claiming England is too big a decision to make if you aren’t completely confident it’s the right course to take.”

Mary sits heavily on the sofa and rubs her temples. “It doesn’t matter if I’m unsure. Henry wants this, my mother wants this. Even the Pope wants this! How can I defy the Vatican?”

“It worked out well the first time, didn’t it?” Bash joins her on the seat and Mary smiles. “You have doubts. Let’s play this out. What would happen if you claimed England?”

“Best case scenario?” Mary takes a deep breath. “Your father and the Pope are right, English Catholics rise up against Elizabeth and all recognize me as their queen. We rule three kingdoms in peace and live long, worry-free lives.”

“And you think that…believable?”

Mary snorts. “Of course not. England has been torn apart by religion for decades now. A Scottish queen on their throne is not going to solve anything. Even if Elizabeth were dethroned, there would be civil war in England for years. French and Scottish troops would be on English soil, and the fighting could very well spread.” She looks at Bash. “French Protestants are growing stronger. They’ve met in Paris. A war of religion in England is not likely to stay there for long.”

Bash nods. “So a quick takeover is unlikely. Go on.”

“I can claim England all I want. It’s doubtful it will ever be a reality. Elizabeth won’t forget it, though. Scotland and England are already on a knife’s edge. This could tip us into war. At the very least, she would want my head.”

“I would protect you. And France would support Scotland.”

“Under your reign, perhaps. Henry has already proven reluctant to provide real military aid. And besides, even if he does, that gets us back in the same situation – a religious war breaking out in France.”

“Why don’t you ever do this outside our chambers?”

“What do you mean?”

Bash pushes a stray lock behind her ear. “You’re so smart, Mary. You see Europe as a chess match and you know all the players, all the moves and counter-moves. You should make your voice heard.” 

“It’s hard to make your voice heard in a room full of men.”

“Make them hear you. You’re Queen of Scotland. Lord knows, when you’re Queen of France you’ll be the one actually keeping the place in order.”

“You’ll make a great king, Bash,” she says softly, caressing his face.

Bash catches her hand and gives it a quick kiss. “We aren’t talking about me. What happens if you don’t claim England?”

“We risk the wrath of your father, my mother…”

“So?”

“So?”

“So they’ll be angry.” Bash shrugs. “They were angry when we married. They got over it. They’ll do the same with this. What else?”

“Even if I don’t claim the throne, I’m still Elizabeth’s heir. She could still see me as a threat, especially surrounded by two Catholic nations.”

“Would she risk starting a war, though?”

Mary shakes her head. “I can’t see Elizabeth going to war. She’s too cunning for that,” she says. “She could still want Scotland, though.”

“She’ll want Scotland no matter what. The English tried for your throne when you were a child, when it was vulnerable. Now you’re grown, with the Dauphin as your husband. They’ll back down.”

She smiles. “I believe that’s one of the first times I’ve heard you refer to yourself as the Dauphin.”

“I suppose I’m still getting used to wearing it.”

“You wear it well.”

“Dauphin though I may be, you are a queen. So tell me, Mary, Queen of Scots, what is your decision? I will support you either way, but I want it to be your decision.”

Mary considers this for a handful of long moments. “I think,” she says. “I think England is too great a risk. I have no interest in risking our lives for a nation that will never want me.”

Henry is irate when they tell him the next afternoon. He threatens to claim England in Mary’s name, as she is not yet of age. But Mary has already thought of this.

“That’s why I sent a letter, several copies actually, with different riders, congratulating my cousin on her ascendancy to the English throne.”

Checkmate.

Catherine whispers as she walks by, “Well played, Mary. Well played.” For the first time, she looks on her with what Mary thinks is respect.

Henry pushes, threatens, bargains, but Mary stands firm, Bash securely on her side.

Letters from Scotland arrive. Her mother is furious, all they have worked for, gone. Mary cries when she reads her mother’s hateful words, but Diane is there to soothe her, and with Bash’s support she writes Marie back with steady hands. 

Court is tense, but the festivities of the holidays soon serve to lighten everyone’s mood. 

And so the year ends, and as Mary drifts to sleep in Bash’s arms, her only wish is that the next year brings them peace.

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Mary awakes in her own bed, still in her clothes from last night but snuggly tucked beneath the covers. She doesn’t remember how she got there, but knows Bash must have kept his word. 

For a moment she just stares at the canopy above her, trying to sort out all that has happened in the past two days. Her fate with England is sealed; there is nothing she can do to but wait for Elizabeth to come for her. She will need to discuss the baby with Francis, but finds she cannot bear to have that conversation now. Part of her wishes to just wallow in bed, but another part, a greater part, notices that the sun is shining and some of the frost has actually melted. 

She calls her maids and has them dress her in a riding habit. Her head spins a bit from last night’s wine and she refuses food. She wants to get to the stables as quickly as possible. 

Bash’s horse is not in his pen, but the boy tells her he left a short while ago, headed east along the lake trail. Mary mounts her horse and rides after him. Her hair comes loose from her thick braid and waves wild in the wind. For a time there is no castle, no England, no baby. She is free from all her worries. There is only the blue sky above and the crisp winter air in her lungs.

She sees him as she crests the hill and calls out his name until she is nearly hoarse. She urges her horse faster down the hill, at a pace that is just shy of reckless. At last, Bash seems to hear her calls. He turns in the saddle, surprise evident on his face, and brings his horse to her at a trot.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I wanted to see you. I wanted to ride with you.” Suddenly she’s worried she’s intruded. “If that’s alright. I can go.”

“No, no,” is his hasty reply. “You’re welcome here. I’m…I’m glad you’re here.” He pauses. “What did Francis say?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spoken with him.”

“Why?”

“I wanted to be with you.” She says it nonchalantly, but the look she gives him conveys her words’ greater meaning. “Shall we go?”

Bash bows low in the saddle. “Lead the way, Your Grace.”

They race through the fields and over the hills. She’s missed these morning rides, when the day is new and full of possibility.

She’s missed Bash.

When they return to the stables and have groomed their horses, she pulls him aside, away from prying eyes. “I need to say something. About last night. And I need you to understand that I know things are still difficult between us and I don’t expect anything from you.”

She sees his shields go up. “Go on.”

She swallows nervously. “You said you didn’t want to be my second choice. But the truth is, you’re only second because I met Francis first. And though you might be second, you’re also my last choice. You’re the last man I will ever want. There will never be another after you. Just…Just so you know.” She waits a moment for his response, but his face is unreadable. So Mary nods and walks away.

Strong hands grab her arm and waist, spinning her into his chest. She loses her breath and has no chance to regain it as Bash’s lips claim hers. One hand winds in her braid, and Mary’s hands grip the front of his riding vest, twisting the material in her fingers. The kiss seems endless, and as it ebbs Bash kisses her lightly twice more before pulling back to look into her eyes.

“Good,” he simply says. He smiles. “Good.”

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Mary and Bash spend their first anniversary at the cabin by the lake. 

Court life, after being upended for over a year, had finally settled down again. Henry’s anger over the loss of England still flared on occasion, but these happened with lessening frequency. He was somewhat placated by Francis’ return to court shortly after the Epiphany. Things between the three young people were awkward and tense at times, but Francis kept his word – he had returned home because the sight of them together no longer caused him pain. He’d returned home because he was ready to be wed, to whomever his parents chose. Catherine was delighted at the opportunity to handpick a daughter-in-law whom she could control.

Lola’s child is never mentioned. Perhaps it was better this way.

Another winter ends and a new spring begins. Mary is still without child. None of the symptoms Diane had mentioned occur. The nobles and other members of court begin to talk, to wonder if the Queen of Scots is barren, or if this is God’s punishment for marrying a bastard. 

Mary ignores them.

Bash can not.

Which is how Mary awakes one night to find Bash murmuring prayers over her flat, naked stomach.

“What are you doing?” she mutters, still half asleep.

“Nothing,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep.” He continues the prayer, strange words she does not recognize.

“Is that Latin?” Bash looks at her sheepishly. “Pagan?”

Bash sighs and returns to his pillow. “It’s a pagan fertility prayer. It’s for good health for the mother and whatever children she will bear.”

“And do you believe it?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think it could hurt. It’s just…we’ve been married for over a year and yet…”

“I’m still not pregnant. You think something’s wrong with me.”

“Or me. Or…” He rubs his hand over her abdomen.

“Or?”

“What if what they say is true? That this is what happens when a queen marries too far below her.”

“Bash, no.” Mary props herself up on an elbow. “You are more noble than any other man at court. This is not some punishment. These things just take time.”

“But how much time?”

“It took Catherine nearly ten years before she had her first child.”

“Catherine,” Bash snorts. “It’s amazing anything could grow in her womb.”

“Well, what about your mother? She’d been with Henry for a while before she had you.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because she wasn’t trying to get pregnant.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. “Oh. You mean you were…”

“An accident?”

“I was going to say unplanned.”

“Either way. Your examples are not comforting.”

Mary sighs. “I know it is difficult for you. An heir will seal your position as France’s next king and – ”

“My position at court…Mary, no. I don’t care about producing an heir.” He again caresses her stomach. “I want to have a child, not with a queen but with my wife. I know we agreed not to worry about this, but now that the hardships of the past year are behind us, I feel like we’re ready. I want to give you a child.” He sighs. “I just don’t know how.”

She kisses him softly. “You have already given me so much, Bash. All that is good in my life comes from you. We’ll have a child, several of them. I promise.”

But come the next half moon, Mary is still without child. Same for the next month, which comes while Bash is away at Cambrai with his father, observing treaty negotiations to end the fighting with the Habsburgs in the Italian lands.

She hates that he is gone. It’s the first time Mary and Bash have been separated since before their marriage, and she didn’t realize just how much she depended on him until he was gone. More then once she dreams she married Francis instead, and Bash was banished or killed. Each time she awakes in a cold sweat, reaching out for her husband only to find his side of the bed empty.

Bash is gone for almost a month. Finally, riders appear, announcing the arrival of the King and his men in the evening. Mary tries to concentrate on her tasks – letters from advisors about the Protestants in Scotland, embroidery, speaking with her ladies, but inevitably she ends up staring out her balcony, searching the horizon of any sign of him.

The sun is just starting to set when their horses come into view. Mary races through the halls and out the palace doors, into Bash’s waiting arms. A feast has been prepared to honor Henry’s triumphant return, but the couple skips the dinner, preferring instead to reunite in the privacy of their own chambers. Their kisses taste sweeter that night, their lovemaking more passionate. “I missed you”s intermingle with “I love you”s as Bash takes her twice during the night and then again at dawn. 

More trouble from Scotland as the Protestants increase their demands. Mary is in and out of meetings for the next few weeks, each one leaving her more tired than the last. She dozes off during a late afternoon session with the Scottish envoy, and Bash is summoned to take his sleepy wife to her chambers.

“You are running yourself ragged,” he tells her as he tucks her into bed. “You need rest.”

“I’m fine,” she insists. But she is already asleep by the time Bash closes the door.

A few days later, as her maids lace up her corset, Mary notices an ache in her breasts.

But it isn’t until the full moon that she knows for sure. She counts on her fingers and consults with Diane, who gives her a knowing smile.

That night, as they lie in bed, she takes Bash’s hand and places it over her stomach. For a moment his hand rests there motionless. Then suddenly, he jerks.

“Truly?” Mary nods, biting her lip to keep from grinning too widely. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Bash’s smile lights up their dark chambers. “Mary.” He kisses her deeply. “When?”

“Sometime around the New Year. But, Bash, many things can go wrong.”

“Shhh.” He kisses her again. “Put those thoughts from your head. Nothing will happen. I won’t let it. I will always protect you.” He moves down to her stomach. “And you.” He places a light kiss just below her naval. “Thank you,” he whispers, and then begins to recite in the pagan tongue. 

Mary, the Catholic queen, plays with his hair as her husband murmurs heretical words to their unborn child.

She has never been happier.

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Francis, at least, is up front with her about Robert’s paternity. “The child is mine. I’m claiming him and he’ll be brought up at court.”

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

“What else is there to say?”

“Francis, you have a child with my lady and my friend! You think there is nothing more to say?”

Francis narrows his eyes. “I told you when you first came back, a king does not answer to his wife.”

“You are not yet France’s king.”

“No, but I’m Scotland’s king.”

Her instinct is to cower, but for once in her marriage, Mary wants to fight back. She steps up to Francis, toe to toe. “Lola is my friend, and so I will welcome her child. You can keep your other whores, and whatever children they may give you. You can keep France. But Scotland is mine.”

Henry’s reaction to Robert’s birth is surprisingly subdued. A bastard is, obviously, nothing new at French court, and Henry simply tells Francis to make sure to produce some legitimate heirs in the near future.

Catherine looks on the babe with disgust, even though he is her first grandchild. She calls Mary again to her chambers and asks if she’s been using the ointments and lotions. 

“All your fertility treatments are useless if my husband does not share my bed,” Mary retorts.

“I was once in your place,” Catherine says. “You must entice him back. Once you are pregnant, Francis will return your affections. Men are always at their most doting when their wife is pregnant.”

Francis visits her bed twice during the Christmas festivities. Each time it is over quickly. Each time Mary cries.

Since their ride, Mary and Bash had grown close once more. They took their morning rides together and often ate supper in his chambers. There had been stolen kisses, but nothing further. Being with Francis feels like cheating, like a betrayal, and she avoids Bash all the next day. But Bash is too smart sometimes, and the next time Francis comes to her, Bash refuses to be shut out. 

She cries when she tells him what happened, and Bash holds her and whispers assurances. 

“What if he’s gotten me with child?” she asks.

“Don’t think such things,” he answers.

And at the next half moon, Mary wakes to her monthly bleeding. She spends her morning in the chapel, praying to the Blessed Virgin.

Sickness sweeps through the castle in late February. For the young and healthy, it is just a cough, and Mary recovers after a week. But for the very old and very young, the illness is much worse. Little Robert’s cough lingers and worsens, and Nostradamus’ only recommendation is to take the child to warmer, drier climes. Lola and Robert are packed away for southern Spain, and Francis insists on accompanying them. Shortly thereafter, Henry sets off for Cambrai, for treaty negotiations with the Habsburgs.

Mary finally feels like she is free.

Their physical relationship doesn’t change, but Mary and Bash begin to be a bit bolder about spending time in public. If the servants notice they don’t seem to care, and if Catherine notices she makes no comment. Perhaps she remembers when she was young, with a husband with a bastard and a secret lover her only source of comfort.

A clear day suddenly turns dark, and Mary and Bash find themselves in an April shower during one of their morning rides. “This way!” he shouts, and they take off at a gallop through the woods. Mary is sure Bash is leading them in circles when suddenly a small cabin comes into view. “Hurry!” He helps her down from her horse and, hand in hand, they run towards the shelter. At the entrance, Mary lets go of his hand.

“What are you doing?” Bash shouts over the pouring rain.

Mary closes her eyes and tilts her head back. Arms out, she spins, laughing.

“When was the last time you played in the rain?” she calls.

“I don’t remember.”

“Neither do I!” She giggles and twirls as the rain comes down, cleansing her soul. A baptismal by rain that washes away her sins.

“Have you gone mad?”

“No!” she cries, holding out her arms for him to join her. He does. “I’m happy. After over a year, I’m finally happy.” She throws her arms around him and kisses him. “That cabin. It’s for hunters.”

“Yes.”

“Is there a bed in it?”

Bash’s voice is tight. “Yes.”

Mary raises herself and speaks against his lips. “Take me there.”

The double meaning of her words is not lost on Bash as he scoops her up without hesitation. They land on the bed in a jumble of limbs, Mary clawing at the laces of his jacket until he grabs her wrists and holds them over her head, kissing her deeply. “Slow,” he says. “We have time. I want to go slow.”

Mary swallows at his words and nods. “Slow,” she agrees.

They make love slowly, reverently, taking time to caress and kiss as much of each others’ bodies as they possibly can. When they finish, they hold each other tight and listen to the rain.

Mary prays it never stops.

They have three days of bliss. Three days in which they do not leave each other’s side. Three nights during which Mary stays in Bash’s chambers. Three mornings of waking up next to each other, naked from the night’s activities and eager for more. They have three days of complete and total love.

And then it all comes crashing down.

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The first months of her pregnancy pass slowly. Mary is miserable. She is sick almost everyday, eating little besides soft bread. She’s exhausted, often falling asleep in the middle afternoon.

The height of her discomfort comes just as news arrives from Scotland. The Protestants are in open rebellion. Henry sends French troops, but they are of little help. Mary receives letters every day from her mother and sits in multiple meetings with her Scottish advisors. Because of her condition, she finds herself relying more and more on Bash, who accompanies her to every meeting and has been forced to take a more active role in the issue.

Bash is not unintelligent, but he is too honest for his own good. Petty squabbles test his patience. The crown is an ill fit, Mary sees for the first time, but he wears it, for her, to ease her burden as she carries their child. For the most part, he does it with no complaints.

For the most part.

“I just don’t understand! What does it matter if the people are Catholic or not?”

Mary looks up in surprise from her vanity. “We are Catholic rulers!”

“And we can remain Catholic. That doesn’t mean we have to force our religion onto others.”

“Force our religion? Really, Bash, do you hear yourself? We are saving their souls.”

“Saving them from what?”

“From Protestant heresy!”

“And heresy cannot be allowed?” Bash has that look on his face. He’s laying a trap for her, but Mary is too tired to see it.

“Exactly.”

“Anything that goes against the teachings of the Catholic Church, that would be heresy?”

“Yes.”

“And all heretics deserve to be burned.”

She pauses. “Not all, but those who would rise up against the Church…”

“So, tell me, Mary.” He kneels in front of her. “Would you have me burned?”

“What? No! Why would I have you burned?”

“I whisper pagan prayers to our unborn child every night. Is that not heresy?”

The trap is sprung.

Mary flounders. “No…”

“No, it’s not heresy?”

“Well, yes, it’s heresy, but…”

“But?”

“But you do it in private!”

“So, as long as one is outwardly Catholic, they can practice whatever religion they like in the privacy of their own homes?”

“Yes. Wait – no!” She rubs her temples. “Bash, I’m tired and you’re confusing me.”

He shakes his head and chuckles. “Alright, let’s put you to bed. Just, think about this, yes?”

Mary nods as she adjusts the covers. Bash blows out the candle and quickly joins her. Silence reigns for a few moments before she turns to him.

“Bash?”

“Hmmm?”

“Aren’t you…?”

“Aren’t I what?”

“You know.” In the dark she gives him a look and Bash smirks.

“Is the Catholic requesting pagan prayers? Is she asking to expose her son to such wicked heresy?”

“Fine. Never mind.” She rolls over in a huff. Behind her she hears Bash snort as he rolls her back over.

“Come here, wife.” He kisses her scowl. “If it means that much to you.”

Mary weaves her hands in his hair as he places his lips near her stomach. “I don’t know why, but I find it oddly comforting.”

“Isn’t that the point of all religions? To provide comfort?” He begins speaking in that foreign tongue, his voice low and lilting, and Mary lets it carry her to sleep.

Her symptoms subside by early July, just as her belly begins to grow and show through her gowns. Her energy returns, as does her appetite. Multiple times a day she finds herself absently rubbing her growing bump, and Bash makes a point of seeking her out to stroke it as well. There is still trouble in Scotland, but civil war no longer seems imminent, to the relief of all. Bash says no more mention of accepting heresy, but Mary often thinks about their conversation that night.

Summer turns to fall, and Francis marries Anna, the youngest daughter in the Austrian Habsburg line. Their first meeting is a week before the ceremony. Anna is shy and soft-spoken, but, Mary finds, possesses a wicked wit. 

“She’ll need that to survive Catherine as a mother-in-law,” she tells Bash.

The wedding is lavish, extravagant to the point of excess. Hothouse roses adorn every surface. Garlands hang from the ceiling. Meats and cakes weigh down the tables.

“Do you wish we’d had this?” Bash asks from behind her, his hands wrapped around to rest on her considerable belly.

“No.” Mary places her hands on top of his. “This is a beautiful wedding.” She cranes her neck to kiss his cheek. “But you have given me a beautiful marriage.” The horn sounds, and Francis and Anna and their retinue leave for the consummation. “And I’m especially glad we avoided that.”

The days grow colder and shorter. Bash still whispers prayers at night, but now he does much more, telling their son stories or the news of the day.

“Geese flew overhead this morning, headed south. When you’re old enough, I’ll teach you to shoot, and we’ll go hunting for them.”

Mary smiles as she listens to his voice and watches how his eyes light up when their son moves or kicks. 

Christmas comes and goes, as does the New Year, as does the Epiphany. Mary begins to think she will never give birth.

“The first ones are often late.” This advice comes, of all places, from Catherine one morning as she sees Mary waddling down the corridors. “Walking helps.”

Catherine can afford to be kind. After only three months of marriage, Anna is already with child.

“I’ve been walking these halls for the past three days. I’m beginning to think he’ll never come.”

“Well, then, if I may?” At Mary’s nod Catherine puts her hands gently on her bump. “Now, listen here, young prince. Your mother is tired. You are late. It’s time to come out. There,” she says, stepping back. “A direct order from the Queen. If that doesn’t work, I’m not sure what will.”

Mary’s water breaks three hours later.

At the convent Mary helped the nuns deliver babies. She delivered Isobel’s daughter by herself in the Blood Wood. But none of this has prepared her for going through the experience herself. 

Bash is with her until the midwife arrives, at which point he is practically shoved out the door. Kenna and Greer help her walk the room and rub her lower back when the pain becomes too much. The sun has just slipped below the horizon when the pain becomes constant and unbearable.

“Please,” she begs. “Just a moment’s rest.”

“He’ll come soon, now. Just a little longer,” the midwife urges.

Finally, it is time to push. Mary knows this can take a long time as well, but at least she knows the end is in sight.

She loses count of how many times the midwife orders her to push as maids hold back her legs. “One more, Your Grace.”

“You’ve said that the last five times!”

Mary grits her teeth, puts her chin to her chest, and pushes. 

“Your Grace, open your eyes!”

Mary didn’t realize she had closed them. She opens them just in time to see the baby, bloody and white, slide out of her. Shrill wails pierce the air. The midwife cuts the cord. The baby is wrapped in a blanket and placed in Mary’s arms.

“You did very well, Your Grace. We just have the afterbirth now to deal with…”

But Mary doesn’t hear her. All she can do it stare at the little bundle in her arms. “Hello. Hello,” she whispers over and over again. “You’re here. You’re really here.”

Kenna appears at the door. “There’s a very anxious father who can’t be held back any longer.”

The midwife cleans her as best she can, and Greer is adamant that she at least brush and braid Mary’s hair before Bash is allowed in. Finally, though, the room is cleared.

“How is he?” Bash asks softly as he joins Mary on the bed.

“He,” Mary says as she hands him the baby, “is a she.”

“She? We have a daughter?” Mary nods and watches as Bash stares at their daughter’s little face. “Hello, little one.” He strokes her cheek and the baby’s lip flexes. “She smiled!”

“You sure you aren’t disappointed? That she’s a girl?”

“Why would I be?”

“Kings need sons. And, all the things you talked about…Hunting, riding…”

“You think this little Scottish princess can’t learn to ride? To shoot?” He turns to their daughter. “Don’t listen to your mother. I’ll teach you everything.” He kisses her head. “You need a name.”

“I was thinking Isobel.”

Bash looks at her, eyes swimming. “It’s not a very Scottish name.”

“Well, she’s half French.”

“The lesser half.” But he leans over to kiss her forehead. “Thank you.”

“It’s just a name,” Mary says, blinking back tears.

“That’s not what I’m thanking you for.”

Mary lays her head on his shoulder and smiles down at Isobel. “I know.”

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“What do you mean, he has not yet returned?” Henry’s roar is heard throughout the castle, and all the servants scatter like mice when he walks in a room. He had returned for Cambrai expecting Francis to have come back from Spain. That this was not the case makes him furious.

The tongue-lashing Henry gives Francis when his heir does return, five days later, becomes the stuff of legend among the castle’s staff. The story became more elaborate with each retelling, but the bottom line was this: Henry didn’t care how many mistresses Francis had or how many bastards they gave him, but he had better start producing legitimate heirs, immediately.

The slam of the door echoes down the stone corridor as Francis storms out of his father’s room. He finds Mary in her chambers, sewing with Kenna and Greer. 

“Out!” he orders, and bars the door after them. 

“Francis, what – ?” But he has already thrown her on the bed. He takes her too roughly; his hands on her hips leave bruises. 

“We need heirs,” he says he dresses. “We know I’m capable.” With that he leaves Mary naked and shivering on the bed.

She bars the door after him and refuses to allow anyone in the room, even her friends. 

But Bash finds a way. 

He comes to her after the castle is asleep, stealing in silently through the secret passage. She’s shy at first, but he gently insists. “Let me see.” She lifts up her shift so he can see the bruises, which he rubs with salve. “I could kill him,” he says through gritted teeth.

“You have to promise me you won’t harm him,” Mary says, alarmed. “You have to promise. It could mean your death.”

“It would be worth it,” Bash mutters darkly. But he promises to keep his distance.

“This won’t be the last time,” Mary whispers in the dark as they lie entangled in her bed. “Henry wants heirs. Francis will be back tomorrow, and the next day…” She closes her eyes, refusing to cry.

Bash’s arms tighten around her. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Just hold me.”

So he does.

Every evening for a fortnight Francis comes to her. He is not always rough. Some nights he is almost tender, as if trying to reclaim the love they have lost. But in Mary’s eyes, he is always unwelcome.

Every night for a fortnight Bash steals into her room. He heals her wounds, both physical and emotional. They never make love; they don’t even kiss, save for chaste ones on the forehead or cheek. He simply holds her through the night, disappearing before the sky has turned gray.

After a fortnight Francis’ interest wanes. It is early summer, and the nobles, and the nobles’ daughters, have returned to court. He can no longer be bothered to visit her chambers nightly.

For a month Mary thinks she is safe. And then the torture starts again. But not from Francis.

Henry.

It starts at the end of May. Mary sits alone in the garden. She does not hear Henry approach her until he is hissing in her ear. “Are you pregnant yet?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Well, best to do it quickly.” He plucks a rose. “Queens who find themselves unable to produce heirs soon find themselves – ” he crushes the bloom – “replaced.”

The conversation chills Mary for the rest of the day. 

It continues like this. Every few days Henry finds a way to approach her alone to make threats against her life should she not become with child.

“The Valois line must continue, you understand. If my son is not up to the task of getting you with child, perhaps another Valois is.”

He knows, Mary thinks. She has not told Bash about his father’s threats, for fear of what Bash would do. She does not tell him now that Henry must know about their relationship. Instead, she simply tells Bash not to come to her rooms that night. He protests, but Mary is insistent. “Francis told a servant he might come late tonight,” she lies. Bash’s face is grim but he agrees. Mary isn’t sure he believes her.

It isn’t until the Feast of Saint Jean, marking Midsummer, that Mary realizes Henry wasn’t talking about Bash.

He was talking about himself.

He finds her in a deserted hallway, reeking of wine. “Tell me, Mary, are you pregnant?” He doesn’t let her answer, backing her up against the stone wall. “If my son can’t get you with child, let’s see how I fare.”

Mary makes to scream, but his hand is already closing around her throat, shutting off her air. She claws at his hand but he holds her fast several inches above the ground. Her vision begins to blur, the world turns black…

Suddenly Henry is gone. Mary collapses to the ground, coughing, gagging for breath. She looks for Henry, but something, someone, is standing in front of her.

Bash.

“I thought you were clear about what was your, and what was not.” She hears Henry’s mocking voice. “I guess you still haven’t learned that lesson.”

Bash’s hand flexes around his sword’s hilt, but he does not draw it.. “As God as my witness, if you try to harm her again – ”

“You’ll what? Don’t make threats against a king, Bash. Son or not, I’ll still have your head.” 

For a moment Mary fears Henry will draw his own sword, but after a moment of staring Bash down the king leaves, unharmed. Bash stands guard over her until Henry is out of sight, and then he drops to his knees before her.

“Are you alright?” he asks, pulling her tight against him. “Did he..?”

“No. He didn’t have time. Bash, if you hadn’t come….”

She sobs.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“No, Bash, you can’t! He’s the king. He’s your father!”

“A father who once tried to have me killed! A king who just tried to rape you! Don’t you think he deserves to die?”

“Not if it means your death, too!”

She begs him to promise not to do anything rash, but Bash refuses. “I promise to keep you safe,” is all he will say.

“How can you keep me safe if you are dead?”

Bash doesn’t respond.

Mary gets her answer a week later, at the tournament held to celebrate the end of the war with the Habsburgs. She sits beside Catherine on the dais, halfheartedly cheering as Francis wins the archery competition. “Where is the king?” she asks.

“He’s insisting on participating in the joust,” says Catherine, as if she could care less.

Shortly thereafter Henry appears in the links, Diane’s colors tied to his lance. His opponent’s name is announced, a man Mary does not recognize.

“No.” She hears Nostradamus gasp from his place behind Catherine.

“What it is?”

“It’s as I’ve foreseen. The young lion shall overcome the older one.”

“What are you talking about?”

But there is no time for Nostradamus to respond. The two horses charge at one another. There is a sharp crack as the knight’s lance shatters Henry’s facemask. The crowd gasps, then screams, at the sight before them.

A large shard of wood sticks out from Henry’s face.

Catherine screams. Mary is shocked still. Nobles run to Henry’s aid. In the confusion, the young knight makes his escape, unnoticed by all except one.

The Queen of Scots, who has suddenly realized she has not seen Bash all day.

She tries to find him, but Francis needs her at his side while the physicians examine the king. The wood has pierced his eye and cannot be removed. He weaves in and out of consciousness. When he is coherent, he asks for Diane, a request Catherine flatly denies. 

After several hours, Francis kisses her hand, as if he were her loving husband. “It’s getting late and you need rest. Get some sleep.”

Bash is waiting for her in her chambers, half drunk and half mad. She quickly bars the door.

“Is he…?”

“He’s still alive,” she answers. “But they don’t expect him to survive.”

Bash crumbles to the floor, and Mary is immediately at his side, rocking him as he has rocked her so many times before.

“It’s alright,” she soothes. “It was an accident.” Bash shakes his head as the tears fall. “Tell me it was an accident.”

“He hurt you,” he cries. “He was going to keep hurting you.”

“Bash, no.”

“I told you I would protect you.”

“But not like this! Not at the expense of your soul!”

They cry and cling to each other until the fire has gone out and the ashes have grown cold.

Ten days later, Henry dies.

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“Mary.”

She hears her name at the edges of consciousness. 

“Mary.” 

She tries to open her eyes, but she’s so tired. 

“Mary!” 

This time the voice is accompanied by a nudge on her shoulder. Mary blinks, eyes adjusting to the dark.

The image before her clicks into focus as her mind becomes fully conscious. Bash stands before her, looking embarrassed. In his arms he holds their three-day-old daughter, who suckles his finger.

“Again, Bash?”

The new family had been allowed a few hours together the night Isobel was born. Just before dawn the midwife had returned to check Mary’s bleeding and take Isobel to the wet nurse. Mary had fallen asleep as soon as the child left her arms, only to be awakened late in the afternoon. Greer and Kenna had helped her dress and done her hair, Isobel was returned, and then the parade began. In ones and twos the royal family and other high-ranking members of the court had traipsed through their chambers, formally meeting the newest Princess of Scotland and France. 

Custom dictated that Mary spend the first few weeks after giving birth in confinement, at least until her bleeding stopped. Isobel, like all royal babies, was to be cared for in the nursery. This was how Mary herself had been raised. She expected no different for her daughter.

She forgets, sometimes, that Bash was not raised as a royal.

“I think she’s hungry,” he whispers to her now.

“You can’t keep doing this, Bash!” She takes Isobel from his arms and puts her to her breast. “She has a wet nurse. I can’t keep feeding her once a day, in the middle of the night! She belongs in the nursery.”

“She belongs with her parents!” he whisper-shouts. Bash rubs a hand over his tired face and sits on the bed. “She belongs with us,” he says more gently.

“She’s a princess. This is how all royal babes are raised.”

“What if we didn’t raise her as a royal? What if we raised her as a bastard?”

“Excuse me?!”

“That came out wrong.”

“Because you are tired. I am tired. We have important duties and we need to be sharp.”

Bash sighs and rubs a hand over the back of Isobel’s head. “I was back at court by the time little Henry was born. I remember his birth, and then…It was as if he had just disappeared. He was in the nursery, all the time. Royal babies don’t see their parents. I don’t want that to happen with Isobel.”

“Bash…”

“You told me once that no challenge was a match for us if we were together. We can do this. She’s such a little thing.”

“A little hungry thing,” Mary mutters. She sighs and nods. “One week, Bash. We’ll try for a week.”

The truth is, while Bash had fallen instantly in love with Isobel the moment he held her, Mary…had not. She loved her daughter, yes, but the experience of childbirth was so taxing that the only emotion she could properly muster was exhaustion. This was compounded by the fact that letters from Scotland had not stopped, and in fact tensions seemed to be getting worse between Catholics and Protestants. She meant what she told Bash – they had important duties that needed their undivided attention. 

The next day a small crib is brought into their chambers, along with a thin cot for Bash (“If you try to touch me during my confinement time, Bash, so help me…”). As a father, Bash is above reproach. He holds Isobel during the day, rocks her to sleep, sings to her when she cries. 

But Bash does not have breasts.

And Isobel is often hungry.

That week is hard for Mary. Her breasts swell with milk and become uncomfortable if she has to delay nursing Isobel. She wakes up in the middle of the night to a screaming baby.

At the end of the week, Mary is ready to hand Isobel back to the wet nurse. She can’t do it. She can’t be both a mother and a queen. She practices the speech she will give to Bash when he wakes up.

Isobel stirs at dawn. Mary takes her from the crib and settles in her chair by the fire. Isobel eats greedily, sucking with gusto from both breasts. When she is full, she breaks off, fast asleep, a look of utter contentment on her face. A drop of milk is stuck in the corner of her lips.

And that’s when it happens.

That’s when Mary, so tired, so stressed, so sore, falls inextricably in love with her child.

The wave of love she feels crashes down upon her. There is nothing she would not do for this baby in her arms. There is no foe she would not fight to keep her safe. There is no force that could take her away.

She hears Bash kneel beside her. “I’ve been so selfish,” she whispers.

“No.” His voice is soothing. “I know this has been hard for you, with the birth and Scotland. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

“I’m glad you did. I’m glad you did.” She wipes the milk from Isobel’s mouth. “We should notify the wet nurse. She doesn’t need to worry about Isobel anymore.”

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Mary is crowned Queen of France a little over two months later, on a bright September morning in Reims. Her uncles from the House of Guise are quick to congratulate her, and even quicker to take control of France. Over the next few months she will receive near daily reports of trouble in Scotland. She and Francis send French troops to help her mother in Edinburgh. French Protestants begin to flex their own muscles. 

The holidays pass. Winter comes and goes. Spring turns to summer. Marie de Guise dies. Before Mary can properly mourn her mother, she receives word that a treaty has been signed in her name. French troops are to leave Scotland. She is no longer allowed to bear English heraldry on her crest.

As if she ever cared about that. 

Time moves slowly, and yet as a blur. Monotony rules her life. Francis visits her chambers a few times a month. She feels nothing.

Bash is banished.

No one ever discovered his part in Henry’s death. Before the king’s body was cold in the ground, Catherine had dismissed Diane from court, and Bash along with her. Mary had tried to plead with Francis to allow his brother to stay, but the new king could not be swayed. 

They write to each other in secret, messages carried by Kenna, who had bonded with Diane in their shared grief. These letters are the sole bright spot in Mary’s life.

And so the year passed.

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Mary is alone in her chambers when she hears the news.

“Your Grace.” A page hands her a sealed letter, addressed not in her mother’s hand. “Urgent news from Scotland.”

Mary reads the letter. She does not cry. She stands on her balcony, looking out but seeing nothing, as she comes to terms with the news she has just received and its ramifications.

After a while she ventures down to the gardens, where she knows Bash likes to take Isobel on warm afternoons. The late June sun shines bright, and all the roses are in bloom. She finds them cuddled on a blanket, both on their backs, as Bash points out animals in the clouds. For a moment she simply stares at them, her little family. She wants to remember this moment.

Isobel sees her first. Her eyes light up. She gurgles and coos as Mary approaches.

“Enjoying yourselves?” she asks, sitting beside them and scooping Isobel into her lap. “How many animals did you find today?”

“The clouds were not so cooperative on that front,” Bash says. He examines her expression. “What’s wrong?”

“My mother’s dead.”

Bash is silent for a moment. “When? How?”

“A little less than two weeks ago. She was ill, though she never made mention of it to me.”

“Are you alright?”

Mary holds Isobel a little closer. The infant plays with Mary’s hair. “I know I should feel sad, but I just feel…empty. Is that horrible?”

“No. You so rarely saw her. She gave birth to you, but she never really got the chance to be your mother.” Mary nods. “What does this mean for Scotland? Will you appoint another regent?”

“I could…”

Bash knows her too well. “You want to go back. You want to go to Scotland.”

“No,” Mary says quickly. Too quickly. “No. We live in France. You’re the Dauphin.”

“And you are Scotland’s Queen. A queen who is finally of age.”

Mary sighs. “I do sometimes wonder if I could better solve this religious mess if I was actually there.”

“Have you given any more thought to what we discussed that night?”

“About the nature of heresy?” Mary grins. “I do think about it, from time to time.”

“There’s a new ambassador from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. Have you met him?”

She’s a bit taken aback by this seemingly sudden change of conversation. “Woy-chalk?”

“Woy-CHECK,” Bash corrects her pronunciation. “He’s an interesting fellow. He’s quite taken with Isobel. We were talking the other night. He was confused by all these Catholic-Protestant squabbles. In Poland, all religion is welcome. They have complete religious toleration.”

“What are you saying, Bash?”

“I’m saying this fight between Catholics and Protestants has gone on long enough. Your mother, the main force behind holding the Catholic line, is dead. You can rule as you will. Scotland is yours. You can continue to push the Catholic faith, or,” he takes one of her hands in his, “or you can reshape Scotland. Take it out of the mire of these religious wars and establish it as a haven for those of all faiths.”

“What you’re proposing can’t be done.” She looks at him as if he’s mad.

“Why not?” he asks.

The question haunts her the next four days. Why not? Because she is Catholic.

A Catholic with a pagan husband, a voice inside her whispers.

Bash is Catholic, she tells herself.

Her inner voice laughs.

Bash might be Catholic, but he is not only Catholic. And yet he is the best man she has ever known.

Her whole life, Mary has been told she is to defend the Catholic faith. It is not so easy to turn away from that.

You were also told you had to marry Francis, that voice says again. Aren’t you glad you challenged that fate?

When Bash finds her later that afternoon, Mary is deep in conversation with Wojciech. 

That evening, after Isobel has been tucked in, she beckons him to join her on the balcony.

“I’ve been thinking, about what you said.” Bash nods. Mary takes a deep breath and continues. “I think you’re right. I don’t know if the Protestants will listen to me, but I think it’s worth trying.”

Bash smiles. “Wojciech convinced you?”

“Wojciech showed me it could be done. You convinced me,” she says. “You have quite the knack for radical politics, you realize?”

He chuckles. “So, Mary, Queen of Scots, when do we leave?”

“It won’t be that simple. I’ll write letters in the morning, but I don’t want to leave just yet. Not with Isobel so young. It’s a hard voyage to Scotland. I won’t risk her.” Bash nods. “And there’s something else. Elizabeth is backing the Protestants. They’ll continue to fight as long as they have her support.” She gives Bash a meaningful look.

It takes him a moment to catch her meaning. “Mary, if you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting…”

“Yes,” says Mary, drawing herself up. “I believe it’s time my cousin and I met.”

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Mary is alone in her chambers when she hears the news.

“Your Grace, come quick! The king has lost consciousness!”

By the time Mary has reached the Great Hall, Francis is already sitting up. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he keeps repeating. He looks pale, though, and thinner, all of a sudden.

“You need to rest,” Catherine scolds.

“Kings rest when the next one is crowned,” Francis jokes, and the crowd gives an appeasing laugh. “It is just the cold. You’ll see, I’ll be better in a few days.”

But Francis does not get better. He gets worse.

He begins to complain of severe headaches. His neck becomes stiff, and no amount of massaging can lessen the pain. His ears begin to bother him, and the few times he is seen outside his room he can often be seen tugging or rubbing at them.

November turns to December, and the young king takes to his bed one last time. Mary begins spending her days with him, out of duty but also out of love. Not love for the man Francis has become, but love for the boy she once knew, a boy with an easy laugh and mischief in his eyes.

“What happened to us, Francis? How did we become such bitter shells?”

He calls for his father, for Olivia, for Lola and Robert, still in Spain. He even calls for Mary, not realizing she is by his side. On the third day, he calls for Bash.

Riders are sent to the Chateau de Chaumont, and the next morning brings them back, with Bash. It is the first time Mary and Bash have seen each other in over a year, but there is no time for a proper reunion. In the anteroom to Francis’ chambers, Bash gives her a quick kiss before disappearing into the bedroom. He is there for several hours.

When he finally does emerge, there are tears in his eyes. “He’s asking for his mother. And a priest.”

Catherine slaps him. “You should not have come back.”

“My brother is dying. Where else should I be?”

It is almost evening by the time Mary and Bash are able to make it to the privacy of her chambers. As soon as the door shuts, she collapses into his arms. They hold each other tight, swaying slightly, as the sun dips below the horizon. 

“I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too.”

Mary orders up food and wine, and they sit on the floor in front of the fire. They do not talk. They do not kiss. They do not sleep. They simply hold each other and wait. Wait for the news that the king is dead. 

Wait for the news that Francis has passed.

The page comes shortly after dawn. The young king is gone.

Mary cries, because as much pain as Francis has caused her, he was still her husband, and she loved him, once.

Bash cries, because as much pain as Francis has caused him, he was still his brother, and he loves him, still.

Funeral preparations for a king, especially one who has died so suddenly, are not made overnight. It is over two weeks later that Francis is finally laid to rest in the Basilica of St. Denis. Mary wears a white mourning gown and veil. Bash stands in the back, away from prying eyes.

The carriage ride back to the castle is tense. Charles, king at the age of ten, cries. Catherine refuses to make eye contact with Mary.

But the sun is shining and the air is crisp when they arrive back at the castle. The next morning, for the first time in more than a year, Mary and Bash ride together. As they gallop away from the castle, they leave behind all the pain and heartache of the past several years.

Mary feels she is finally free.

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Henry thinks she’s gone mad. Her uncle threatens that no Scottish noble, Catholic or Protestant, will support her. But Mary stands firm.

Letters are sent to London. For a month, Mary and Bash wait for Elizabeth’s reply. When it comes, it is short and to the point. 

“My advisors say it is lunacy to meet with you. But your letter intrigues me, little Cousin, and I often say life is more enjoyable with a little intrigue. I understand you have a small child, and so I will not ask you to travel far. Meet me in Dover on the first of September. I will not have any advisors with me. I ask you do the same. Do bring your bastard of a husband, though. I believe we will have much to talk about.”

Mary is insulted by her reference to Bash, but he simply laughs. “Mary, Elizabeth herself grew up a bastard. She means no harm.”

They set out in the third week of August. Mary is loath to leave Isobel behind, but Diane promises to take good care of her granddaughter. Their ship lays anchor off the coast, and the next morning they row to shore.

Elizabeth is waiting for them in the old banquet room of Dover Castle, alone, as she promised. She is younger than Mary imagined, and she has to remind herself that Elizabeth is still in her mid-twenties. She is fearsome, to be sure, strong willed and headstrong, but here, dressed in a simple gown, Elizabeth looks human, as well.

“Your Grace.” Mary gives a slight curtsy.

Elizabeth inclines her head. “Your Grace. Shall we agree to dispense with the titles and simply call ourselves by our Christian names?”

“If you’d like.”

“I do, Mary.” She looks over Bash. “And you must be Sebastian de Poitiers. Or do you go by Valois, now?”

“Stuart,” is Bash’s cheeky reply, and Elizabeth laughs.

“A right answer if I ever heard one. I hear you are one of the few men in Europe who doesn’t mind that his wife outranks him.”

“I hear that is why you’ve had such trouble finding a man yourself.”

“Bash!” Mary admonishes, but again Elizabeth simply laughs.

“It’s fine. Bastards never learn to hold their tongues. That’s why I’m so bad at it, myself.” She motions to the table. “Sit, please. Shall we begin?”

“I’m going to be returning to Scotland. It is time for me to rule there.”

“Your letter said as much. And you want my English troops to simply leave?”

“I cannot rule effectively if foreign troops are on my soil, nor if my nobles are looking elsewhere for leadership.”

“You mean you cannot rule as a Catholic.”

“I am a Catholic, and I will continue to be a Catholic. But I will not force the faith on any of my subjects. Those who wish to remain Protestant may do so. So long as their fealty is to me, not you.”

Elizabeth leans forward. “You’re proposing religious toleration.”

“Yes.”

“It won’t work.”

“It works in Poland. It will work in Scotland.”

Elizabeth breathes through her nose, considering. “I cannot openly support this. Not when I’ve just decreed Protestantism as the state religion of England.”

“Then don’t. Just don’t fight me on it. Withdraw your support. Let me have a chance to win back my nobles.”

“Leave Scotland to you, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes. Leave me Scotland, as I left England to you.”

“I was wondering when that was going to come up,” Elizabeth smirks. “I must say, you confounded everyone here. They were all certain you would reach for the throne.”

Mary grins back. “There was pressure to, I won’t lie. But it seemed to be too risky a proposition.”

“Not to mention the fact that you are still next in line.”

“Until you have children.”

“And if I don’t?”

Mary is taken aback. “I don’t understand.”

“All I hear these days is when am I going to find a husband. The problem is, no one can agree upon whom. We are not all so lucky to marry for love, Cousin. I’m beginning to think England would be better served by an unmarried queen. And if that should prove the case,” her tone becomes harsher, “I would be leaving England to you or your children, who are also the heirs to Scotland and France. Your religious experiment may work in Scotland, on the periphery, but in France?” She waves her hand dismissively. “France will remain Catholic. What’s to say they won’t undo our Reformation?”

“France has nothing to do with this,” Mary argues.

“Oh, Mary,” Elizabeth sighs. “You are intelligent, I give you that, and bold. But you are still so young and naïve. You act as if France and Scotland are two separate nations. The fact is, the second Henry dies and they place the crown on your husband’s head, Scotland and France are one. Your child will be king or queen regnant of both kingdoms. Tell me, what do you think will happen to Scotland then? Whose interests will be put forth first – Scotland’s, on the northern tip of an island, or France’s, in the very heart of Europe? Not to mention, should I die without an heir, your children will rule England as well.”

“I cannot change the line of succession,” Mary argues. “If you don’t have an heir, I cannot change that the English throne would go to one of my children. I didn’t claim England because it was not mine by right, but I will not deny my children their legacy.”

“I don’t care that England may have a Scottish king,” Elizabeth retorts. “But a French king on the English throne? No,” she shakes her head. “No, I cannot allow that.”

“Then take France out of the equation,” Bash says, speaking for the first time.

“I just explained how that is impossible.”

“Because you assume I will be king, that my children will inherit the French throne. What if that were no longer the case?”

“What?” Elizabeth is confused.

“What?” Mary is irate.

“A moment, please, so I may confer with my wife?” 

Elizabeth stands. “Take as much time as you need.”

The door has barely shut before Mary is wheeling on him. “What are you talking about? Giving up the French throne! Have you gone mad?”

“Hear me out, please. It’s not as mad as you think.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s all very reasonable,” she shoots back.

“I never wanted to be king. You know this. You’ve always known this. I took it up to save Francis and then to have you. But I never wanted to rule. I’m not good at it.”

“You are,” she insists.

“No, I’m not. I haven’t the patience for it. I don’t have your passion.” He takes her hands in his, pulling her close. “I can protect you, I can support you, I can even advise you on occasion. But I can’t rule.”

“You have time to learn. Your father is healthy yet. It could be years before he dies.”

“And then what? What if an issue arises in which Scotland’s and France’s interests don’t align? Elizabeth is right; Scotland would essentially become a part of France the moment I am king. I won’t be the one to take your nation away from you.” He cradles her face. “I promised you, once, that I would always put you first, ahead of any land, any crown. This is me living up to that promise. Please, don’t make me a liar.”

She grips his hand, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. “You won’t regret this and resent me later?”

“Never.”

Mary kisses him. “Alright, then. Let’s see what Elizabeth has to say.”

Elizabeth has a great deal to say, but in the end she declares the situation amenable. France and Scotland will remain allies, but with their thrones no longer tied, the threat to England has lessened considerably. As long as Mary holds to her promise that Scottish Protestants will not be punished, Elizabeth agrees to withdraw her support.

Mary and Bash return to France. Henry yells. Catherine looks pleased. Francis simply shakes his head and laughs.

Anna takes it the worst.

“This is not what I agreed to!” she vents to Mary. “I married the second son. My sisters, they are to be queens, not me!”

“You will make a fine queen, Anna,” Mary says reassuringly. “Besides,” she adds, nodding at the boy in Anna’s arms. “You’ve already completed your most important duty.”

Advisors are called to work out the details of the new arrangement between England and Scotland. Letters fly back and forth across the Channel. And then, on the fifth of December, Mary and Elizabeth sign the Treaty of Dover.

A little over five months later, Mary, Bash and Isobel board a ship in Calais.

The Queen of Scots is going home.

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Bash waits over a month, out of respect for Francis’ memory, before he kisses her again. When he does, on a late January night on her balcony, the shivers that run through Mary’s body are not just from the cold. They carry on in secret for a week, stealing kisses in her chambers and in empty halls. The castle may be in mourning, but Mary and Bash feel as if they have been given a new chance at life. 

It’s a mild day in February that Bash leads them into the woods during their ride. Mary wonders where his is taking them until the small cabin comes into view.

Bash watches her as he dismounts and approaches her. “Give me the sign, and we’ll turn back. If this is too soon, or…”

“No.” Mary quickly cuts him off. “It has been too long.” 

The cabin is cold. Bash starts a fire while Mary shakes out the blankets. Their touches are tentative at first as they relearn each others’ bodies. They take their time removing their clothing. Bash teases her with his fingers and his tongue, building her up so that when he does finally enter her, Mary shatters around him.

They stay in the cabin until the light begins to fade, returning to the castle just as twilight ends. He escorts her to her chambers, but Mary grabs his hand as he makes to leave.

“I am yours. I don’t care who knows.”

This time is passionate and frenzied. Hands tear at laces and fastenings. This is not just lovemaking; it is an exorcisizing of their demons.

“Tell me,” Bash whispers as they hold each other in bed. “Now that you are free to, tell me.”

Mary moves to look him in the eye. “I love you.”

They make love until dawn.

From then on, Bash sleeps in her chambers. Either no one notices, or no one cares.

Mary grows tired. Her breasts become tender to Bash’s touch. Her monthly bleeding stops.

She prays to the Blessed Virgin that she not be with child, not yet. But her prayers go unanswered.

She waits until the second full moon before she tells Bash. His smile makes her more confident in their situation. “Marry me, Mary, Queen of Scots,” he says again, and Mary can only nod as she cries at the absolute love she sees in his eyes.

Elopement plans are made once more. Bash leaves just after dawn to consult with the priest in the little stone chapel. “I’ll be back by midday,” he tells her. 

Mary spends the morning in a state of bliss. Her stomach is still flat, but she rubs it all the same. Greer seems suspicious when Mary asks her to do her hair up, but says nothing. 

Midday comes. Bash does not. The afternoon passes slowly. Still no Bash. Mary has just decided to take a horse and go to the church herself when there’s a commotion at the castle’s gates. A peasant with a cart, demanding to speak with a member of the court.

Mary flies down, praying she is wrong, that the pit in her stomach is caused by her pregnancy. That what she saw was false.

That Bash’s horse is not tied at the end of the cart.

“Mary, no!” Greer cries. But it is too late.

She does not scream. She does not cry. She simply falls to the ground and stares at Bash’s body, limp on floor of the cart.

Bash rode almost every day since he was seven. He never once fell. But that day, his horse threw a shoe. Bash was tossed from his saddle. He broke his neck. He was dead before he could even realize what had happened.

Bash is buried in a simple grave at the edge of the woods.

Mary is inconsolable, blind and deaf to everything but the pain in her chest. And then, a week later, the pain moves to her belly. Sharp stabs cause her to double over. She feels moisture between her legs, and when she looks, she finds blood.

Her last link to Bash is gone.

She wakes the morning after her miscarriage to find Catherine sitting on her bed. For a long while, the two queens simply regard each other.

“The child,” Catherine finally says. “It was Bash’s?” Mary nods. “Then perhaps it was just as well.” She does not mean to be unkind.

“I want to go home,” Mary says, staring at the ceiling.

“I think that would be best. When you feel strong enough, we can start to arrange for your travel.” 

She is almost gone before Mary’s voice stops her. “You said we’d be happy.” She pushes herself up so she can glare at Catherine. “I married Francis because your prophecy said we would be happy! We were supposed to be happy!” she cries.

Catherine closes her eyes. “I know, my child. I know.”

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Mary arrives back in Scotland, the land of her birth, in May 1561. She comes home to a Scotland united against her.

The Catholics feel she has abandoned them. The Protestants don’t trust her. No one knows her. An especially bold writer calls her a French wolf in Scottish wool. She begins to doubt herself.

“You are a Queen,” Bash tells her every night. “You rule Scotland. No one can take it from you.”

And so, day in and day out, she does what Bash told her once to do: In a room full of men, Mary makes her voice heard. She redistributes Catholic Church landholdings, but only in areas that are predominantly Protestant (this angers the Catholics). She orders that treasures taken from the Protestantized churches be transferred to other Catholic churches (this angers the Protestants). And she decrees that Scotland will have no official religion (this angers everyone).

It is hard work and it is slow work, but eventually, when both sides see she won’t favor one over the other, the nobles begin to come around. 

It also helps that in November she gives birth to a son, James. As her mother once told her, a queen’s power is derived from her sons.

William follows a year and a half later, and then after that Mary miscarries in her fourth month. Their last child, a little girl named Aylee, is born on Easter morning, 1566. The four of them are all dark-haired wild things who rain havoc down on Scottish court.

“It’s no wonder our Queen is so fierce,” the bold writer says. “She deals with banshees daily.”

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Mary arrives back in Scotland, the land of her birth, in August 1561. She comes home to a Scotland divided.

The Protestants take power, and the Catholics despise her for not doing more. She marries again and gives birth to a baby boy, James, whom she never sees. Her husband is murdered, and she is forced to marry again. Neither marriage is happy.

Plots and factions arise. Elizabeth accuses her of conspiring to take the English throne, and Mary is held captive for years. She does not care. Nothing matters to her, now.

It is almost a relief when she hears that Elizabeth has sentenced her to death. She dons a red dress, the color of the Catholic martyrs. She thinks of her son, whom she hasn’t seen in almost twenty years.

She thinks of Greer and Kenna, Lola and little Robert, and sweet Aylee, who never made it home.

She thinks of Francis and Catherine, Henry and Diane.

She thinks of Bash. She thinks of seeing him again soon.

She lays her head on the block. The axe comes down.

Mary closes her eyes.

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Mary opens her eyes.

Sunbeams trickle through the windows, but it is not the light that has awoken her. It is the knocking at her door.

Mary sits and stretches. Bash lies still beside her, eyes firmly closed. “Are you still asleep? You’re usually up by now.”

Bash keeps his eyes shut as he answers. “If I open my eyes, it means this day has started. And I don’t want this day to start.”

The knocking comes again, this time accompanied by, “Mother? Mother, are you up?”

Mary gives Bash a push. “Get up. You’ll survive this day.”

“Not likely,” he grumbles as Mary puts on her robe and opens the door.

Isobel is nearly vibrating, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh, good, you are awake. We need to start getting ready.”

“Isobel, the ceremony isn’t until this afternoon. We have time. Let me at least call for breakfast.”

“I already have. It’s waiting for you in my room.”

“Well, that was…expedient of you.”

Isobel looks around her. “Is Papa still in bed? Is he alright?”

“Your Papa is ill,” Bash calls. “Tell the priest you’ll have to reschedule.”

“He’s fine,” says Mary. “Let me get dressed and I’ll be there shortly.”

“Please do hurry!” Isobel scampers off as Mary closes the door.

“She’s too young,” Bash says as he dresses.

Mary laughs. “When I was her age, I was pregnant with James. Did you think I was too young?”

“That was different.”

“Oh, really?” she teases. “How so?”

Silence. “It just was.”

“Ah,” she says as she puts on a simple dress.

Bash spins her suddenly and gathers her in his arms. “I remember now. We had to marry quickly, if you’ll recall.”

“Hmmm. So you’re saying if there had been no other pressures, you would have gladly waited three years to wed me?” 

“To wed you? Yes,” he says, eyes full of mirth. “But to bed you?”

She laughs and rubs the grey at his temples. “After all these years, you’re still so cheeky.”

“And you’re still beautiful,” he answers, leaning down to kiss her.

Their door slams open. “Papa! Papa! We have to hurry.”

Both parents groan. “Aylee, what have we said about knocking?” Bash admonishes gently.

Aylee is the youngest of their brood, but, at almost thirteen, she is already taller than Mary. She is also the most like Bash, both in looks and disposition, having inherited her father’s eyes and his love of the outdoors.

“Sorry, sorry. But we have to check the snares we put out yesterday.”

“Your sister is getting married today!” Mary scolds. “You don’t have time for that.”

“But we have to check them every day! Don’t we, Papa? Please, it won’t take long.”

Bash gives Mary a pleading look. “It really won’t take long…”

Mary stares at them both in disbelief, but she could never deny those eyes. “Fine! But you’ll have to be quick. And Aylee, when you get back, I want no arguments. You wear what your sister tells you, you do your hair as she directs. Understood?”

Aylee nods. “Yes.”

“Where are your brothers?” Bash asks as he puts on his boots.

“Liam was reading.” William is the quiet one, although he could still raise hell under the right circumstances. 

“I hope he wasn’t up all night again,” Mary says. “What about James?”

Aylee rolls her eyes. “He was waiting outside Charlotte’s rooms with a silly look on his face.”

Countess Charlotte of Nassau, from the House of Orange, had been visiting Scotland for two weeks, at the suggestion of Elizabeth. She had still not married, and thus had taken an interest in grooming James as her successor. Most especially, she was interested in seeing him married to a Protestant. A Dutch wife would fulfill that wish. So far, it seemed James was most definitely interested.

“It’s really quite pathetic, the way he just follows her around,” Aylee continues.

“I think it’s sweet,” says Mary.

“He’s too young,” Bash grumbles.

“If you had your way, you’d keep all our children unmarried.”

“Don’t worry, Papa. I don’t ever want to get married.”

“And that, my little kelpie, is why today, you are my favorite.” He drops a kiss on his daughter’s head. “Let’s go.”

“Be quick!” Mary calls. 

They are almost out the door when Bash rushes back to her. He kisses her swiftly. “Don’t plan on sleeping this night, wife.”

After all these years, those words still make her blush. “It is not our wedding night, husband.”

“So?” His eyes twinkle as he backs out of the room.

The rest of the day passes quickly. Mary helps Isobel dress in her wedding gown (and helps Isobel remain calm when Aylee returns with mud splatter on her arms). She checks on her sons. Liam has to be roused from his window seat, where he’s fallen asleep, book in hand. James has to be called back from courting Charlotte. Bash is tasked with making sure both boys are dressed and ready in time. 

“Are you nervous?” she asks Isobel as they share one last moment alone.

“A little,” her daughter admits. “Not about marrying Richard.”

“About tonight?” Mary asks. Isobel nods. “You know it may hurt a little. But it will be over soon, and the next time will be…quite enjoyable.”

“Mother!” 

“Oh, don’t be so scandalized, Isobel. You’re about to be a wife. More importantly, a wife with a husband who truly loves her.”

Isobel hugs her mother. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted – a marriage like yours and Papa’s.”

And then it is time. All gather in the chapel to witness the marriage of Isobel, Princess of Scots, to Richard, first son of the Duke of Somerset.

After, the food is plentiful and the wine flows freely. The young people dance until late at night. Mary and Bash stay only until the new couple leaves for their consummation, and then they, too, retire to their chambers.

“Well,” sighs Bash as he undoes his doublet. “She’s a wife, now. Wasn’t it only yesterday she was crying in our arms as we held her?”

“And now she’ll be mother herself soon,” Mary replies as she brushes out her hair at her vanity.

Bash shakes his head. “James will be next, sooner rather than later, if Elizabeth has her way. At least Liam and Aylee are as of yet uninterested.”

Mary laughs and decides to not tell him about how Liam spent the evening engaged in conversation with the Danish ambassador’s bookish daughter, nor how Aylee blushed whenever the son of one of her advisors looked her way.

Instead, she simply says, “Isobel is lucky to have made such a good match. Richard loves her. He’s a good man.” Under her breath, she mutters, “Even if he is English.”

But Bash, of course, hears her. He chuckles as he approaches her. “Still harboring some lingering resentments for our neighbors to the south?” he teases. 

“No,” Mary insists. “It’s just…Couldn’t she have married a good Scottish boy? One who lives near by?”

Bash wraps his arms around her from behind. “The heart wants what the heart wants. You, of all people, should know what.” He places a kiss on her neck. “Come to bed.” He takes her hand and leads her across the room.

“Do you know what Isobel told me? That all she wanted was a marriage like ours.”

Bash grins. “She told me the same thing.”

“I’ve been thinking about that all day, our marriage, and how close I came to losing all this. To losing you.” She stops before the bed. “What would I have done, without you by my side? Always supporting me, encouraging me, protecting me. Loving me. You made me a mother. You made me a wife. You made me a queen.”

“You were born a queen, Mary.”

“I was born with that title. You made me earn it.” She wraps her arms around his neck. “You made all this possible, you realize that, don’t you?”

Bash shakes his head as he holds her close. “It wasn’t just me, and it wasn’t just you. It was the two of us, together. Bastard and Queen.”

“I prefer husband and wife.”

“Well, then, wife,” he says, lifting her in the air and placing her on the bed. “I believe I promised you a night of no sleep.”

Mary smiles as she caresses his cheek. “That you did, my dear husband.” She kisses him deeply. “That you did.”


End file.
